Life Debt
by CorellianBlue
Summary: A young Imperial lieutenant. A Wookiee slave. A life debt. (The definitive tale - until the young Han Solo movie comes out in 2018!)
1. Chapter 1

**LIFE DEBT**

by CorellianBlue

(first published 1998, updated 2015)

 _Part I_

"Hey, Han—Slick—wait up!"

Han Solo glanced over his shoulder at the sound of his name, but continued walking his loose, confident gait. Kit bag slung casually over his shoulder, he tugged open the neck of his black flight suit. The slight, red-haired ensign at Solo's side turned briefly, but kept in step with Han. Han rolled his eyes elaborately at his wingman, Kai Ts'un. Kai returned the gesture with a conspiratorial smirk.

In the narrow corridor, other similarly attired pilots moved past them in both directions, on their way to or from the flight deck. Those pilots who knew Solo and Kai gave nods of recognition. A young woman barely out of her teens with the rank of ensign on her body-hugging suit, touched her forehead in mock salute to him.

"How's the weather out there, Slick?" she playfully asked as she approached him, her blond hair caught up in a tail at the back of her head bouncing behind her.

"Things will brighten up with you airborne, Taanach," Han replied.

He grinned devilishly as Bekka Taanach deliberately brushed past him and poked him in the ribs.

"Clear skies," he called the spacers' farewell to her departing back, and she absently raised her hand in response.

Han always hated shift-change aboard the Guardian class escort carrier, _Gilt_ _Defender_. With up to 24 pilots from each of the carrier's four squadrons returning from surveillance patrols being replaced by a similar number of fresh pilots, the flight deck corridor became a rippling, black mass of flight suits and sweat. While elsewhere on the 950-meter long Corellian naval carrier, a relative handful of droids, technical crew and command personnel controlled the running of the starship, it was here in the hangars and surrounding areas that humans were valued for their skills as pilots. Try as they may, no defense industry boffin had yet perfected an unmanned fighter which mimicked the flair, dexterity and ego of living, breathing human pilots. And at change of shift, they all got to push and scrape past each other.

The stark contrast of black flight suits against the sterile, starship-white walls combined with the pilots' murmurs, coughs and laughter, and the distant hum of the carrier's ion engines, made Han feel as if he was in a child's educational toy for studying insect colonies of myrmins. At the conclusion of yet another uneventful surveillance patrol conducted to protect Corellian—correction, _Imperial_ —sovereignty, Han often wondered just how far from the truth that was.

Behind him, Solo heard the jogging boot steps of the young man who had called out. He and Kai slowed their pace but continued down the corridor.

"Yo, Slick, Red. Where you going in such a hurry? Didn't you hear me?"

Gereith Jotham, Solo's other wingman, slapped a friendly hand on Han's shoulder as he fell into step with him, pushing Kai to one side. Like Han, he was dressed in the black flight suit of the Corellian Sector of the Imperial Navy, lieutenant pips above the left breast pocket, his nickname above the right pocket. The three men wore shoulder patches emblazoned with a golden falcon in flight, identifying the squadron they belonged to.

"I heard you alright, Joth," Han mumbled, his eyes fixed ahead. "I was trying to ignore you."

"Always, the comedian, hey, Slick?" Jotham slapped Han's shoulder again and chuckled with delight. "Wanna shoot the jet juice after debrief? I'm meeting Braddon at the mess at nineteen hundred." Jotham gave Kai a cursory glance. "You can come too, Red."

"Gee," Kai grunted, "thanks."

The narrow walls opened up into the mission briefing theatre, and despite the throng of jostling pilots, flight line crew, and intelligence officers with their droid assistants, Solo somehow managed to put a body-width's distance between himself and Jotham. Eager to deliver his surveillance report, he scanned the crowded briefing theatre for one of the squadron intelligence officers, his gaze moving quickly while his head remained still and calm.

Even out in the open, away from the corridor of flight suits, sweat and noise, Solo and Jotham, despite Solo's denials, closely resembled one another. Their sharp-featured faces carried the freshness of inexperience, their lean bodies a certain ranginess of youth. Dark hair lay plastered to their foreheads, damp from the confines of flight helmets and the exertion of surveillance patrols in rapidly aging snub fighters, the once-praised S-101 Ranger.

At twenty-three Standard years of age, Jotham was a couple of years older than Han, however it was Solo who somehow seemed older; his eyes were intense and guarded despite the ready, lopsided grin. Though both had received their lieutenant pips in the same round of promotions, Solo had earned his about two years early, mostly, Jotham guessed, due to him picking up the Corellian Bloodstripe commendation about three months previously.

When the newly-promoted Solo had first been posted to Number 77 Squadron, a little of Jotham was momentarily awed that a contemporary of his could be granted the legendary Corellian Bloodstripe, an infrequently-awarded commendation. Jotham had been resentful that the younger Solo was promoted with him, even more so when Solo, despite being a newcomer to the squadron, was placed in command of the surveillance patrol half-flight which he, Solo and Kai Ts'un made up. However despite the brash arrogance and almost inhuman good luck of the pilot known as Slick, Jotham had grown to like Han Solo in the past six months, albeit grudgingly.

Solo was a brilliant fighter pilot, the best pilot not only in the squadron but on the _Gilt_ _Defender_ , possibly the best pilot in the Sector. He was also a wily tactician and natural leader. Added to this was a quick, sarcastic sense of humor, a fondness for spiced Corellian ale, and an affinity with the sabacc table. Jotham liked Solo—at least now he did. He'd learnt a thing or two about piloting from Solo, had even considered mimicking his leadership style. But the thing Jotham liked most about Solo was that he had a big mouth. Jotham would even wager it would get Solo into trouble one day, more trouble than usual, and when it did, Jotham would be there to step into Solo's boots.

"Nah," Han replied, "I've got practice at the range."

"Working on that speed-draw of yours again?" Jotham shook his head. "You thinking of applying for a vacancy with the Assassins Guild?"

Han shrugged.

"Hell, after ten hours on station for SURPAT, last thing I wanna do is more work."

"When have you ever worked?" Han jibed, adding, "Can you see one of our int geeks?"

'Int geek' was not recognised Imperial terminology for intelligence officer. The term was a throwback to when the Corellians ran their own military forces. Even then, it had been used, predominantly by pilots, to more adequately describe intelligence officers. Int geeks, when not stabbing each other in the back, or scrabbling over each other for the next promotion, or scheming for a posting as a consular military attaché, could be found preying around flight lines, lying in wait for unsuspecting pilots who required briefing, or debriefing, or rebriefing. And these briefs were seldom that.

Int geeks were the guys who really wished they were out there flying, but for some reason—which Solo didn't really care about—they weren't. All Solo knew was prior to any mission, some int geek insisted on trying to tell him how to do his job, when all Han wanted was to get out there and do it. And then when he returned from the mission, when he was tired and sweaty, and looking forward to seeing the Galaxy through the bottom of a glass, _another_ int geek wanted to vicariously relive every aspect of the mission in minute detail.

"There's Jedgar," Kai pointed to a stocky lieutenant wearing a stiff, Imperial grey uniform who turned at the sound of his name.

Han swore and drew his men to an abrupt halt. "Don't point, kid."

"Solo." The lieutenant beckoned to Han.

Han turned his back on the intelligence officer and gathered Kai and Jotham around him.

"Great work, Red," Han muttered.

Kai's pale skin blushed.

"Maybe if we ignore him and head back this way—"

"Solo. I'm waiting."

Han, Kai and Jotham momentarily huddled together in silence. Around them the clamor of the briefing theatre continued unabated. Then Han swung around and strode over to the intelligence officer, a dazzling smile across his face. Kai and Jotham obediently followed.

"Jedgar," Han said warmly. Did this guy even have a first name? Han had only ever heard him called that. "Good to see you."

Jedgar snorted, not fooled by Han's attempt at charm. Jedgar was older than Solo, his hair greying at the temples, a nose as straight as his back, slightly rheumy eyes. And he smelt. Nothing you could really place your finger, or nose, on when initially within range. Just a vague sort of body odour which strengthened proportionate to the amount of time you spent locked in a tiny debriefing cubicle with him and two other tired and sweaty pilots.

"Let's not have a repeat performance of last time, shall we?"

Jedgar was referring to the last debrief he'd suffered with Han. The younger man had been sullen and reticent, delivering his surveillance report in monosyllabic grunts. The time before that, Solo had fallen asleep. And the time before _that_ , he had feigned space sickness with great realism. With so much realism, Solo had thrown up across Jedgar's boots.

"The sooner we start, the sooner you and your men can drink yourselves into oblivion."

The allusion was greatly exaggerated; Imperial craft were generally dry ships, with the crew only allowed two low intoxicant drinks every five work shifts.

Jedgar gestured to the nearby debriefing cubicles. "After you, gentlemen."

"We won't waste your valuable time, Jed." Han withdrew the hand he was about to place on Jedgar's shoulder after a withering glare from the intelligence officer. "All we've got to report is a coupla old YT-1300 stock light freighters, about point oh-two past Durantz Station, conducting a mining survey of the local asteroid belt. It's all here in the can." He grabbed a data chip from his kit bag, pushed it into Jedgar's hand and started to move away with his wingmen.

"Solo, I want a proper report of this. And a formal debrief." Jedgar's tone was firm and demanding.

Solo stopped, Kai and Jotham at his side. "You know how I hate datawork, Jed." He returned the older lieutenant's unflinching stare. "Look, it's all on the chip. Captains' names, owner details, rego numbers, flight and security clearances. Their mother's-in-law surnames. The lot. Trust me." He threw Jedgar a sabacc-faced smile and turned to move off again.

"Solo. Solo, wait."

Jedgar reached forward and roughly grabbed Han's arm. Han froze, stared at the hand around his biceps, then up into Jedgar's indignant face. Personnel in their immediate vicinity stopped their conversations to curiously watch the exchange.

"Let go," Solo said softly. Nobody touched him. Not ever.

"You're not getting out of a debrief this time, hotshot."

With his grip still on Han, Jedgar pushed the younger pilot towards the debriefing cubicles. Jedgar was surprisingly strong and they were halfway to the rooms before Kai and Jotham knew what was happening. Uncertain what to do, Solo's wingmen followed.

"Let go," Solo warned, walking backwards as Jedgar used all his weight to push. "Now."

Han could tell from the intelligence officer's icy glare that Jedgar was determined to spend more time with him. He looked over Jedgar's shoulder to see Jotham and Kai making faces, imploringly seeking direction or guidance as to what action they should take. An unnatural hush pervaded the briefing theatre, disturbed only by pilots smirking and chuckling with delight. Something serious was about to occur. And if it involved Slick Solo, it would definitely be something worth watching.

As they neared the windowed doors of the debriefing cubicles, Solo dropped his kit bag, grabbed Jedgar's shoulder with his free arm and dug his fingers into the joint, pinching the nerves. Jedgar gasped and his grip loosened enough for Han to break free. Solo caught Jedgar's wrist and twisted the older man's arm up behind his back. With one hand still on Jedgar's shoulder and the other trapping the other officer's arm, Han pushed him into the cubicle door. Jedgar groaned as his cheek and chest smacked hard against the window. The data chip slipped from his fingers and skittled across the deck.

Oblivious to the yelps of joy from his wingmen and other pilots, Solo leaned against the intelligence officer, holding him up against the door.

"Are you sure you want to debrief me?" Solo whispered dangerously. "Cos right now I can think of nothing better than spending some time with you. Alone."

Only slightly winded, Jedgar struggled against Solo's weight. The younger man may have been physically stronger and angrier, but the intelligence officer knew who was in the right.

"Get off me, you lout!" Jedgar growled indignantly.

Solo distantly heard his name being called, but the satisfaction of finally having the supercilious lieutenant where he wanted him filled his mind. Incensed at Jedgar's imperious attitude, Han leaned harder and pulled the man's arm up his back.

"Lout? You're calling one of the Emperor's finest a 'lout'?"

"Solo." The distant voice became firmer.

Han moved his hand from Jedgar's shoulder to force the elder man's head against the glassine panel.

"Solo."

"What's say we talk about this when I'm in a more generous mood?" Han suggested, grinning through clenched teeth. "Huh?"

Jedgar grunted, but a small smile twisted his lips. "All right, all right," he muttered, and stopped resisting, his body resting slackly against the door.

"Solo!"

As the elder man conceded limply, Han finally listened to the voice calling his name. Reluctantly he released Jedgar and stepped back, giving the intelligence officer a cursory sneer before turning with an arrogant smile to harass Kai and Jotham for their lack of support. His wingmen, however, now nerfishly flanked a tall lieutenant commander dressed in the black uniform of flight crew. Tarroway, their flight commander.

Solo's smugness evaporated. Tarroway's face was impassive and he stood with his arms folded across his broad chest. Han knew that meant only one thing; Tarroway wasn't just angry, he was livid.

The briefing theatre was surprising quiet and Han became aware he was the centre of attention. He heard Jedgar clear his throat as the older man straightened his crumpled uniform. The hair on the back of Solo's neck rose as he could feel Jedgar smirking behind him. He knew he should have been concerned with his flight commander's reaction, however he was finding it difficult to ignore the loathing he felt for Jedgar and the betrayal by his colleagues; wingmen were supposed to protect the leader, not change sides midway through battle.

"That's it, Solo," Tarroway said quietly. "In my office. Now."

Glaring at his wingmen, Solo snatched up his kit bag. Kai smiled apologetically while Jotham looked elsewhere. Tarroway ignored the exchange and headed out of the briefing theatre, towards the corridor leading to the squadron's offices and crew room. Junior personnel subordinately cleared a path for Tarroway.

"I'll see you're charged for this, Solo," Jedgar threatened as Han followed Tarroway.

"I don't think it'll make much difference," Jotham suggested as he approached the intelligence officer and handed over the data chip he had collected off the floor. "You ready for that debrief now?"

Solo kept his eyes fixed on the back of Lieutenant Commander Tarroway as they strode down the corridor. Only the occasional tilt of Tarroway's head indicated that the lieutenant commander was listening for a second set of boot steps, checking to see if Han was following him.

They passed a few office doors, then Tarroway palmed open the door to his office, a small undecorated room, and entered. As Solo followed, his amble gathered a military bearing. With shoulders back and straight, Han came to a halt, his boot snapping down smartly as he deposited his kit bag next to feet. Tarroway casually leaned against the front of the desk, reached back and touched the remote switch for the door, folded his arms across his chest and stared at Han. Aware he should have been looking past Tarroway's shoulder, Solo held his head up and rebelliously returned the senior officer's gaze. Tarroway's dark face was even darker with anger, and he somehow missed the inappropriateness of a junior officer staring back at him.

The lieutenant commander stared at the young pilot for what seemed like an eternity. Han unflinchingly stared back. Despite Solo's resolve, the silence in the small office became oppressive and he could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

"What's your problem, Solo?"

The sudden, softly-spoken question took Han aback, and he visibly flinched.

"Sir, no problem, sir."

"And you can cut that dumb insolence crap, too!" Tarroway's strident tone sliced the air.

Preferring anger to quiet questions, it was with some relief that Han prepared himself for a berating.

Tarroway adjusted his position on the desk, placed his hands on either side of him.

"Solo, I've never had one like you before." His tone was soft and measured again. "You've caused more trouble in the time you've been here than a mob of gundarks in a kristalex market." He scratched his jaw and grimaced. "Tell me, how can an Academy honors graduate with the 'Stripe and early lieuie pips be on an adverse report within five months and hovering dangerously close to a formal warning not a month later?"

Ignoring the rhetorical nature of the question, Solo ventured in a deadpan voice, "Just lucky I guess, sir."

Tarroway slowly shook his head as if trying to explain something to a disobedient child. "You don't get it, do you, Han?"

Tarroway never called anyone by their first name. Han quickly averted his eyes and found a point on the back wall he preferred to look at.

The lieutenant commander's soothing tone continued. "You've led a charmed existence as an ensign. I've read your file. Your minor indiscretions were overlooked because you're a fine pilot. One of the best."

Tarroway paused to allow the compliment to filter through and for Solo's gaze to tentatively return to his. When he was certain the pilot was listening, he continued. "But, damn it, Han, you're a lieutenant now, in charge of your own half-flight. You've got responsibilities. You've got subordinates looking to you for guidance, for leadership. You can't go jalling around in a maintenance hauler and expect to get away with it. You can't bounce an int geek around a crowded briefing room, even though we're all secretly dying to do it. And you definitely can't tell a Four Pip he's a thruster, even if he is."

Solo suppressed a smirk as Tarroway glared at him. Okay, so maybe 'borrowing' the hauler as part of a wager to prove that _any_ ship could be coaxed to perform aerobatics in a 2.5 Standard G atmosphere was a bit out of line. _Profitable_ , but probably not the sort of stunt an Imperial officer should be involved in. But the other two incidents had most definitely been worth any reprimand.

"The military—any military—needs a solid, disciplined chain of command as a foundation for survival, and an officer corps willing to enforce and uphold that chain."

Solo's gaze returned to the bulkhead and Tarroway threw his hands up in exasperation.

"I shouldn't have to explain this k'ala to you, Solo. You _know_ it. This is 'Intro to Basic Military Doctrine'." Tarroway gestured to Han's leg, to where the red piping of the Bloodstripe would run down his uniform trousers. "Stuff you learnt way before 'Fighter Pilot Space Heroics'."

Solo had had his fair share of admonishments from his flight commander in the time he'd been with the squadron, but he'd never heard him talk so…so Corellian before. He couldn't work out why this time Tarroway was acting differently, as if he was concerned. _Almost sounds like someone's father,_ Han considered distantly. _But you ain't mine, sir._

"You worked and fought hard to get into the Academy," Tarroway continued. "I know that. It's not often people from your background are given the opportunity to apply, let alone attend." The lieutenant commander relaxed his shoulders and leaned forward. "And I also know how hard you worked _at_ the Academy. You had a lot of catching up to do in some areas. But you strapped in, put your head down and got on with the job." He chuckled to himself knowingly. "Somehow you even managed to ignore the distractions of those you called your friends. And look. You walked away with honours. Honours. Not something to be taken lightly."

Tarroway's voice had become an annoying buzz at the back of Solo's head, but he kept his eyes fixed ahead, feigning his attention. He was confident he would come out of this relatively unscathed. As in the past, the famous Solo luck would hold and he'd receive a slap across the wrist. Besides, he was too good a pilot to be seriously reprimanded. _'One of the best'_ , as Tarroway had put it.

"Yet at the rate you're going, I'm beginning to doubt you'll be with us much longer. Which would be a real shame, Han, because you certainly have the potential to go places." Tarroway scratched his temple thoughtfully. "You're going to have to smarten up. Understand? Don't throw away a successful career because you leave your brain in idle. Think before you act. Think before you open that wise-ass mouth of yours."

Tarroway paused and smiled smugly, regarding the insolent young pilot with thinly veiled good humor.

 _Is that it?_ Solo wondered, standing there, still staring at nothing. _Guy must be getting soft in his old age._

"Now for that little ruckus you caused out there," Tarroway nodded towards the briefing theatre, "I could charge you. Correction—I _should_ charge you. But it wouldn't make much difference to you, hey, _Slick_?"

The emphasis on his nickname, and the fact Tarroway was using it, dragged Han's attention away from the spot on the rear bulkhead.

"Uh, no, sir. Not much," Solo offered warily. He couldn't quite figure out where this was heading.

Tarroway smiled appreciatively. "No, I thought not. And the same with a formal warning, right? Water off a pochard's back." The lieutenant commander pushed himself off the desk, strolled around to the other side, and sat in the chair. He stared at Han silently for what felt like minutes, tapping his fingers against his lips. "I've decided to ground you until further notice, Solo."

"You're _what_?" Han broke his rigid stance and his mouth literally fell open.

Unhindered, Tarroway turned his attention to the workstation monitor and tapped the keys of the interface board. "Next round, you're to report to me for assignment. I think a stint in Operations might give you the opportunity to re-evaluate your attitude."

"What?!"

"In the meantime," Tarroway continued oblivious to Han's outburst, "Gereith Jotham will take over control of your half-flight."

Solo's mind was racing now. Nearly every day for the last four years, since the start of his second year at the Academy, Han had flown some form of starship or atmospheric aircraft. He didn't want to imagine what it would be like to be grounded. And yet he'd practically talked himself into it. To top it off, Joth was his replacement. His hands clutched uselessly into fists. He started towards Tarroway's desk as a red tide of anger and frustration rose up around his collar and flushed his face.

"You can't..."

Tarroway's smile faded and he stared at Han icily. "You wouldn't want a charge of insubordination thrown in? Just for good luck?"

Breathing heavily through his nose, Han reluctantly returned to attention. He at least had enough sense to know when he was beaten. "No, sir," he muttered bitterly. _Grounded. I'm grounded. Chu'ell't!_

Tarroway returned to the monitor. "Then I suggest you go and cool off, Solo. And I'll see you ready to hit the data work at oh-seven hundred. Dismissed."

 _Grounded._ Solo stiffly braced himself to attention, snatched the handle to the kit bag, executed an about turn, and moved towards the opening door.

"Oh, and Solo," Tarroway called from his desk.

Han stopped in the doorway, back still turned, refusing to face Tarroway. He knew he was pushing his luck with his flight commander, but he wasn't certain what he would do if he had to face the other man's sardonically grinning face.

"Stay away from the flight line, understand. I don't want you so much as _breathing_ near an ion engine."

Han waited until he heard Tarroway's fingers tapping on the keys again, then marched from the office.


	2. Chapter 2

**LIFE DEBT**

by CorellianBlue

(first published 1998, updated 2015)

 _Part II_

Han Solo threw the kit bag across his cabin as he stormed through the hatchway. The bag knocked a neat stack of data chips off the desk, the chips and the bag's contents falling onto the floor and adjoining bunk. He thumped the control for the door with a clenched fist, before lashing his boot out at the desk chair. The chair rolled forward against the desk, spun into the bunk and toppled over. Stepping over the debris, he fell onto his bunk and hoisted the pillow into the adjacent refresher unit.

It was only as he was nursing bruised knuckles after ramming his fist against the bulkhead that Solo noticed the flashing icon on the desk computer terminal, indicating someone had left him a message. The audible warning system was inoperable—one of the first things Han had done when allocated this cabin was disconnect the computer's vox unit; he hated machinery that talked back.

A bright spark flashed across his dark mood. There was only one person who'd leave him a message, let alone call him direct. Giving his name, rank and serial number for voice verification and user identification, the screen provided access to Han's personal directory. There was only one message listed on the comms log, and he almost smiled when he saw the name, _Lieutenant Ascher Saxel_. According to the shipboard chrono, it had come in recently. That lecture from Tarroway had cost more than his wings.

"Replay message," he ordered, rubbing his knuckles and leaning forward eagerly.

The screen momentarily went to standby mode, then the image of a young woman appeared. _Ascher._

"Hiya, Wingman," Ascher called, her fair, fresh face beaming at him from across the light years.

The sudden presence of her voice and image rapidly cooled his inflamed temper. He felt stupid, guiltily chastised for getting so angry, as if Ascher herself had soundly reprimanded him as she had before on numerous occasions.

"Thought I might've caught you after shift," her recording told him. "Probably at the range again, hey? How's that speed-draw coming along?"

Ascher was a few years older than Han. With her short-cut hair and bright, shining eyes, she didn't look like a senior Imperial lieutenant, but Han knew she certainly acted like one. He had experienced Ascher's well-known, no-nonsense military attitude when, as a wet-behind-the ears ensign, he'd been posted to Number 1 Fighter Squadron and assigned to Ascher's half-flight as one of her wingmen.

Their initial meeting had not gone well. Han had been skylarking with some friends in the dining room of the junior officers' mess and had somehow managed to knock Ascher's dinner down the front of her immaculate black uniform. Ascher had only glared at Han's exuberant and flippant apology.

When Han had reported for duty, only to find himself assigned to Lieutenant Saxel's half-flight, he knew she would make things tough on him, tougher than he would have ordinarily made for himself. By the end of his first day, she had him doing push-ups for his flippant attitude. Although Han soon learnt to curb his tongue when around Ascher, he never failed to drop to the floor whenever she appeared and "push out 20" in anticipation of punishment for something he was bound to do, all the while grinning maniacally up at her.

"Oh, well, sorry I missed you. Just wanted to let you be the first to know somehow I've fooled them all and they're going to promote me. Mad, hey?"

 _No,_ Han thought, smiling wistfully at the young woman in spite of himself. _Not mad. Expected. And deserved._ Ascher was a very good pilot, and there was a time when Han thought she might have been as good as himself; her experience as a front-line fighter pilot had certainly taught him about tactics and anticipation. But although he may have been the better pilot, she was definitely the better Imperial officer. Ascher was one of the rare breed of women given the opportunity to attend the Imperial Academy. She had tested it out with the best of them, and despite her gender, her talents as both a fighter pilot and a military officer shone through. Nobody, not even the predominantly sexist xenophobes of the Imperial Navy, could deny Ascher deserved to be commissioned.

Ascher knew all the rules, knew which ones to bend, which ones to break, and which ones to obey and uphold. She wisely played by the rules and was justly rewarded. Han, on the other hand, even had trouble coming to grips with the fact rules existed. He knew she would blow a thruster when she found out he'd been grounded.

"Wonder what the chances are of you calling me 'sir'?"

 _Pretty good,_ Han conceded. On duty, he'd fondly referred to her as _Boss_ , while she bestowed on him a nickname she had never used before, _Wingman_. And like a true wingman, Han had stuck by her, just off to starboard and slightly aft, always within sight or reach. He had once even saved her hide during an altercation with some uncooperative pirates.

It had not taken long, however, for their friendship to develop into something neither of them had expected nor initially wanted. Flying together, exercising together, eating together—it had just progressed from there. When the rest of their flight had retired to their cabins, and when he wasn't practicing at the range, Han and Ascher would flop onto her bunk and either watch the holovid, talk for hours, or silently relax in each other's company. Fraternisation between crew members was strictly forbidden, yet they had enough of a business-like arrangement when working together that no-one took them to be anything more than friends. And they had been friends— _close friends_ , Han admitted—and still were, even after their relationship had become intimate.

The memory of the first time they made love sent a buzz of adrenalin surging through him. As had become their habit after long TIE fighter sorties, they had been watching the vidscreen in Ascher's cabin. Ascher had been keen to catch up on the latest news broadcasts, but Han could never concentrate on political machinations for too long and he'd grown bored. He had surreptitiously smuggled the remote control, and changed the frequency to a sports channel.

Ascher's gaze had not left the monitor and she had growled an unfinished warning, "Solo."

He had grinned at her cheekily, but otherwise ignored her threatening tone.

"Solo…" This time she had followed her caution with a piercing glare, but now _his_ gaze did not waver from the screen.

When she punched him in the arm and barked "Ensign!" at him, he gave her his best 'injured' look, then suggested she lighten up.

The ensuing wrestling match as they scrambled for control of the remote was a familiar past time, though usually it happened in the clinical confines of the ship's gymnasium. Despite his natural advantage in height, bulk and strength, Ascher was a skilled and nimble practitioner of unarmed combat. She had allowed him to think he had overpowered her, pining her to the bunk as he'd knelt next to her. He had smiled down at her cockily as she lay on her back, struggling weakly, their hands locked on each other's wrists. But he hadn't realised the upper part of her torso was not supported by the mattress. She allowed herself to fall backwards off the bunk, dragging him with her, using his momentum and surprise to flip him onto the deck as she'd rolled over the top of him. Breathing with exertion, and with hands still locked on the other's, they had silently stared at each other as he'd lay on the deck with Ascher straddling his hips. He remembered having an undeniable urge to kiss her. She had quickly released his arms, but instead of moving off him she had leaned down and kissed him firmly on the mouth. Even more surprised by this turn of events than her wrestling trick, Han had compliantly allowed her lips and tongue to explore his own.

Ascher had abruptly ended the kiss and pulled away from him, dismay causing his expectations to wane, if not his desire. She had sat above him for more long moments, her eyes alternately searching his face and then focusing into the distance, as if considering her options. Han had been unable to bear the silence, especially if the seduction was curtailed.

"Okay," he'd told her softly. "You win. I surrender." His voice had drawn her attention back to him. "You can watch the news."

Ascher had smiled down at him fondly, half-laughed, then brushed a hand through his hair. "I think I'd rather watch more of you."

Han's thoughts returned to the computer monitor and the recorded image of Ascher. She casually ran a hand through her hair and her smile distorted to a grimace. Something in her eyes blurred.

"I'm really missing you, Han," she admitted. "I didn't think I would, and I've tried not to..."

Reflexively, Solo touched the screen, tracing his finger down the pixels making up Ascher's face. The anger burning within him was quickly replaced with a cold, hardstone resting in his chest. He hated himself when he felt this way, hated Ascher for stirring his emotions, for making him feel vulnerable and powerless, for enforcing a link between himself and another being. And then he hated himself even more for thinking he should hate her.

But Ascher grinned again, her moment of self-analysis blown away by the affable military officer within, and Solo sat back from the screen, relieved her reverie had passed quickly. He'd always admired Ascher's ability to effectively cope with debilitating emotions.

"Hope to see you soon to help me celebrate. I'll put the Trillian Fizz on ice till then. See you later, Wingman."

The recording winked out and the cabin was silent again apart from the distant hum of the carrier's massive ion engines. On the monitor screen, the comms package silently flashed the question _REPLY?_ Han picked up the desk chair and seated himself in front of the monitor. He rested his elbows on the desk, placed his chin on his fists, and stared at the screen. For long moments he sat quietly, staring at the screen.

Ascher was really going places fast—in leaps and bounds. She was quietly and confidently becoming the model Imperial officer before his eyes. How could he now tell her he was grounded? He hadn't even told her about the adverse report yet. And why had she told him she missed him? He thought they'd agreed anything they'd had—their _'relationship'_ for want of a better word—was over and nothing more than some good times between friends. Some very good times.

His mouth opened as if to speak, then he absently gazed around the small room, searching his cabin for something which might make this easier. The security locker above his bunk caught his eye. Through the translucent door he could discern the outline of his custom-made heavy blaster pistol.

Solo suddenly rose from the chair, hurriedly stripped out of his boots and flight suit and moved into the refresher unit, throwing the pillow back out onto his bunk. Naval 'freshers were regulated to allow only one ten second foaming scrub followed by a five second high-intensity rinse per unit per day. Even the fragrance of the foam cleanser was regulated, which was why all Imperial pilots smelt of a mixture of freshly tanned leather and carbolic acid. About the only thing you could choose was the temperature of the rinse cycle—steaming hot or icy cold. Solo chose the cold rinse cycle and 15 seconds later, as the dryer blasts buffeted his body, was regretting the decision; although the rinse had cooled his temper, his temples ached from the cold.

Still naked, Han shaved, ran a comb through his short, spiky hair and returned to the main room of his cabin. As he dressed in uniform trousers, tunic and boots, he glanced at the monitor. _REPLY?_ continued to throb demandingly on the screen.

He keyed open the security locker, grabbed his blaster, and buckled a holster over his hips. The standard Imperial issue holster sat too high on his hip for his liking; it impeded his speed-draw, but then again, as a pilot, he wasn't supposed to be too interested in developing his close combat skills. He hesitated a moment, then reached back into the locker and grabbed a soft, gray bag.

He jammed the blaster into the holster, slung a cap onto his head and considered himself in the mirror. He flicked lint from his tunic, straightened the red piping on his trousers. Grimacing at his reflection, trying to convince himself he had more important things to do than reply to Ascher's message, he tucked the gray bag under his left arm.

"Return to standby," he ordered the computer, then pivoted on his heel and left the cabin.

Solo strode purposefully down the corridor, briefly acknowledging superiors with a mumbled "Sir" and a curt nod. He took the turbolift down a few decks and made his way to the firing range.

The doors to the range slid open at his approach. Solo knew even before he entered he would be alone; with the ship's company consisting mainly of pilots and command crew, few often used the range, let alone during the hours surrounding shift change. And he preferred it that way.

The firing range consisted of two banks of 10 cubicles opposite each other. Each cubicle could be individually programmed to offer a fire practice package tailored to meet the user's needs. Holographic targets would appear at various height, depth and speed down the length of the 10-metre long cubicles, an accurate hit on the target causing it to dematerialise, a misaimed shot resulting in the target morphing into an accusing, red X.

Solo stepped into Cubicle 7, the cubicle he always used, and identified himself to the range system computer. The RSC questioned his requirements.

"Standard speed-draw program," Solo replied, placing the bag, blaster and cap on a waist-high bench.

He undid the issue holster from his waist, placed it next to the blaster, then opened the bag and removed a civilian holster from it. The tan leather still smelt fresh and new, even though he'd had it since graduation; the nicks and smoothness in the leather testimony to his many hours of practice. He wasn't supposed to use a civilian holster at the range, but, hell, what where they going to do to him? Ground him?

He buckled the holster around his hips, a slight smile tugging the corner of his mouth as he relished the difference between the two holsters. This holster slung low on his thigh, caressing him gently like a familiar lover. He had modified it slightly, cut away the leather to expose the blaster's trigger and trigger guard.

He tied the holster down above his knee and rolled the retaining strap forward to ensure freedom of movement for the draw. From the panel next to the bench, Han took the practice charge the RSC offered him and slid it into the butt of the blaster. He jammed the blaster down into the holster and thought back over the day's events.

"Commence program."

 _Another uneventful—chu'ell't—numbingly boring surveillance patrol._

He squared off down the range, let his arms hang loosely by his sides.

 _Grounded. At Tarroway's discretion._

Slowed his breathing, deep, regular.

 _Missed Ascher's transmission._

Fingers worked near the butt of the blaster, waiting, anticipating.

 _Didn't return her call. Didn't congratulate her. You pask'aghlla._

His hand was already moving as the target image appeared in front of him half-way down the range. His shoulder dipped slightly, body partially twisted as he scooped the blaster up in one fluid movement, his finger gently squeezing the trigger just after the weapon cleared the holster and levelled. The practice beam hit the centre of the target just as another target appeared further down the range. Solo made a slight adjustment to his aim, squeezed off another round, readjusted to meet a new target materialising directly in front of him, squeezed again.

Two more targets popped up almost simultaneously at different ranges and angles. His eyes registered their appearance and beams from his blaster hit soon after.

Five targets. Five direct hits. He holstered his blaster.

"You've sped this up," he mumbled to the RSC. "Sneaky little—"

Further accusations were cut off as another five target sequence commenced.

Nearly an hour later, perspiration beading his forehead and hand twitching from overuse, Solo fired at the final target of yet another target sequence. His aim was slightly off and he snagged the edge of the holographic image. The target flashed and morphed into a red X. Han cursed as the range system terminal beeped his failure. He returned the blaster to his holster, shook his throbbing fingers. His stomach growled with hunger.

"Cease program."

The range system dimmed the overhead lights down the range, accepted the practice charge from Solo and advised him of his score from the session as he collected his gear.

"Accuracy: ninety-eight decimal two seven percent. Previous score: ninety-nine decimal six eight percent. Performance decrease by zero one decimal four one percent."

"Chue'll't! _You_ sped up the session. Doesn't that count for something?"

The terminal beeped again and powered down, ceasing any argument before it could get started.

Solo sneered at the terminal, settled his cap on his head and strode from the range.

By the time he'd had returned his weapon to his cabin, freshened up and made his way to the mess hall, there were still sizable crowds queuing at the meal dispensers which lined the room. This mess hall was specifically for junior officers, those below the rank of lieutenant commander, offering them the opportunity to relax relatively in the company of their peers.

The hall was not much more than a white-walled cavernous hold, with six seat dining tables arranged in neat rows. Most members of flights tended to eat together unless they had other pressing matters to attend to. The pilots queued together at the same dispenser, received their meals on trays, and then congregated at attention around their flight's usual table. Once all members of the flight were assembled, the senior half-flight leader barked out a salute to the Emperor, the Empire, the squadron and the flight.

As Solo stood waiting his turn to collect a meal, he noticed the members of his flight gathering around a nearby table. They had probably only just finished their shift allowance of two low alcohol drinks.

' _Hit the jet juice',_ Solo thought disdainfully, recalling Joth's invitation. The 'two drinks at the completion of five shifts' allowance was hardly enough to rinse his mouth. _And Joth's supposed to take over my position? Hah!_

It was now Solo's turn at the dispenser and his flight were already chanting their salutes. But there was still an empty place at their table. His place, next to Jotham. At least he hadn't been replaced. Yet.

Han ordered a dish of spicy meat strips in a rich sauce, his gaze wandering around the mess hall. There were vacant seats at other tables—mostly the tables occupied by bridge crew, engineering officers and int geeks. Solo squared the drink beaker on his tray, adjusted his cap and strode across to his flight just as they took their seats. He removed his cap with the others, placed his tray on the table and straddled the chair. He ignored the silence and barbed stares from his five colleagues, Joth and Kai from his own half-flight, Braddon, Kitch and Vanovan from the corresponding half-flight.

Solo grabbed a fork and speared a strip of meat. "You guys were never big on table manners," he said lightly. "Thanks for waiting."

Kai glanced sidelong at Jotham, then at Vanovan. Kitch, a gaunt-faced pilot with jet black hair, smiled feebly at his food, also turned to Vanovan. Their faces unsuccessfully tried to hide the fact they'd been discussing Han's grounding.

 _No point avoiding this,_ Han considered. _They know. They've talked about it. Now let's see what they think._

Solo elbowed Joth. "Well looks like you got your big chance to impress them with your leadership skills and officer qualities," he sneered.

Jotham dutifully ignored Han's presence and stared down at his plate. Across the table, Braddon welcomed Han and his customary sarcasm with a grin. Han and Braddon had been class mates back at the Academy, not much more than nodding acquaintances. But since his arrival at the squadron, Solo had grown to enjoy having Braddon around; Braddon's friendly, placid nature sometimes had a calming influence on him.

Braddon froze, his raised fork held still as Vanovan lightly placed a palm on the back of Braddon's hand, motioning for him to stop eating. Han watched Braddon gulp and turn to his half-flight leader.

"I think you'd prefer eating someplace else," Vanovan told Han.

Vanovan was a solidly built Corellian in his late 20s. He was a good pilot and fairly intelligent, but an eight year lieutenant who had been passed over many times for promotion. Solo had never liked Vanovan much, but he had respected him and had even pitied the elder man for his lack of progress through the ranks. Within six weeks of assuming control of his half-flight, Solo had known he was a better leader than Vanovan was after three years. And, what's more, Solo knew that Vanovan knew it too.

Han drank from the beaker and took a bite from his meal. "I'm in the right place."

"Not anymore," Jotham whispered.

Vanovan silenced Jotham with a piercing glare, then looked back at Solo.

" _We'd_ prefer you ate someplace else," Vanovan said.

"This is where I belong," Han replied tersely. "I'm still part of this flight."

Vanovan slowly shook his head. "I don't think so, Slick."

Solo placed his fork down and appealed to the members of his flight. "Just because I'm grounded?"

Plates and trays jumped as Vanovan slammed his palm flat against the table. Even in the noisy mess the sound was unexpected enough to attract the attention of those seated in the vicinity.

Vanovan purposefully kept his voice low. "Just because you're going nowhere fast. And I won't let you drag the rest of the flight with you."

"That's a load of k'ala, Van," Solo responded, "and you know it. Nothing I do affects this flight."

Vanovan blinked and frowned, as if a puzzle he had been working on was suddenly apparent. He nodded in agreement. "You're right, Han. You're right. There's no way your lunatic behavior reflects on the rest of us. I'm sure there was some other reason why we were denied our 'juice' ration. Couldn't possibly have been because you lynched an int geek."

Internally, Han winced. Two drinks wasn't much, but it was better than nothing and he knew how much his flight had looked forward to their allowance. He didn't even want to think he might be responsible for their loss.

Vanovan continued. "Just as I'm sure the stoppage of shore leave when you hijacked that maint hauler—"

"I didn't hijack it—"

"Always excuses, hey, Slick?"

Han poked a fork at his food, shifted in his seat.

"Not your fault, right?" Vanovan's guileless face became harsh. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. And don't even pretend you give a shit. Because you don't." The elder man sat back and tilted his chin up. "You're not welcome here, Solo. I suggest you leave now."

The muscles in Han's neck tightened and he clenched his jaw. His gaze tracked around the faces of his colleagues, gauging the level of consensus. Only Braddon had the courage not to avert his eyes.

Solo slowly returned to his meal. He tried to focus his eyes and his thoughts on the succulent meat, but stopped eating as the members of his flight rose in unison, gathered their meal trays, and left the table. Braddon lingered for a moment as he moved behind Han's chair.

"Nothing personal, Slick. You're not a bad guy," Braddon offered sympathetically. "It's just you attract trouble, and well, most of us aren't interested in that sort of attraction."

Han looked up at Braddon. "What you're saying is friendship counts for nothing."

Braddon placed a consoling hand on Han's shoulder but he shrugged it off.

"Slick, you know better than anyone that friendship don't amount to a pile of Bantha k'ala. It's every lifeform for itself. Isn't that what you say?"

Han glared at Braddon as he heard his own words turned around on him. "Yeah," he murmured, "that's what I say."

Braddon returned his gaze for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder to watch his colleagues move to the other side of the mess hall. He looked back down at Solo and placed his meal tray on the table.

"Look, Slick, you know what it takes to be a good officer and you're already a great pilot—blow most of the rest of us out of the sky—"

"Stop pissing in my pocket, Brad."

"No, damn it, Han! Listen to someone for once instead of mouthing off." Braddon's eyes flashed with an unfamiliar passion.

Solo's eyes held Braddon's with equal fervor. He smiled thinly. "Go ahead. It's your credit and I'm all ears."

Braddon shook his head to himself and swore softly under his breath.

"Yeah, I am one of those," Solo smirked. "Next piece of enlightenment. Or is that all you got to say?"

Braddon quietly considered the younger pilot, the guarded eyes, that damn annoying smirk. "You could have a brilliant career with the Navy, with the Empire. We need pilots and leaders like you."

"Tell it to Tarroway."

Braddon pursed his lips and collected his meal tray. "I'm telling it to you, Han," he said flatly. "For your sake, for all our sakes, I hope you wake up to yourself. Before it's too late."

Braddon turned and strode off after the other members of his flight. Han watched the squared, straight shoulders of Braddon's departing back, his mind fumbling for some retort. But he was flustered by Braddon's comments, still unraveling compliment from condemnation. For a guy with such a quick mouth, he sometimes stumbled for something to say at the most inopportune times.

He returned to his meal, poked a fork at the meat strips now laying in a pool of cold, oily sauce, swirled the lukewarm liquid in its beaker. _Great. The perfect end to a perfect day. What else could happen?_

"May we join you, Solo?" It was more a statement than a question.

Han looked up from his plate as Jedgar and four other intelligence officers sat down at the table with him. The men were all older than Han by at least 10 years, and Han recalled he'd successfully had a run in with all of them at least once. He quickly discarded any thoughts of leaving the table after seeing the expectant looks on their faces. He wasn't about to give any int geek the satisfaction of running him out of the mess.

Jedgar and the four other lieutenants smiled mock-pleasantly as Solo rubbed his forehead.

"You look like you could do with some company." Jedgar had taken the seat opposite him, and he clashed his cutlery together in a predatory way. He smiled his thin-lipped smile at Solo. "I was just telling my colleagues about our little altercation this afternoon."

Han sighed and picked at his food. Even death would be better than having dinner with a bunch of int geeks. He absently wondered what the odds were of a rogue meteor somehow penetrating the shields, smashing through the ship's superstructure and winding up in his lap. The way his day was going, he'd have bet evens on it would happen.

One of the other intelligence officers cleared his throat. "I hear you'll be taking the Imperial public transit system for a while." When Solo didn't respond to the taunt, he redundantly added, "What with you being grounded, I mean."

"Ah, yes," another savoured. "There's nothing quite as pitiful as a pilot with his wings clipped."

"Or an int geek with his mouth open," Solo sniped around a mouthful of food.

For some reason Han couldn't fathom, Jedgar silenced whatever comments the rest of them were about to make by changing the conversation. They moved onto matters of politics, economics and military capabilities as they talked around Han, Jedgar simply relishing in the fact that Solo was almost compelled to remain in his seat until he finished his meal.

Han sat hunched over his plate, determined to eat his meal as quickly as possible without appearing rushed, only occasionally listening as the performance or armament rating of a particular weapons system was mentioned. When he finished his meal, he pushed the plate aside and paused. The topic of conversation had switched to postings, training courses and attachments for special duty, but they stopped talking as he rose from his chair.

Jedgar nodded at him. "Thank you for the pleasure of your company and the scintillating edge you added to our meal time repartee."

Han ignored him and moved away from the table.

"See you tomorrow in the Ops Room, Slick," Jedgar called out.

The intelligence officers continued with their career analysis and expectations, and their voices seemed to cut through the other noises and distractions as Solo walked through the mess hall. They all seemed to have their career paths mapped out, had decided which training courses they had to take, which postings would help be most beneficial to their ultimate goals. Despite being int geeks, they seemed to have direction and purpose in their lives. About the only thing Solo knew he wanted was to fly. Even conducting surveillance patrols, as boring as they were, would be better than sitting in the squadron Ops Room pushing data round for a ten hour shift.

He looked over to where his flight was now seated. Vanovan was guffawing into his meal at some joke Kitch had made. The others chuckled amongst themselves.

And he wanted back into his flight. Those guys weren't any better than him. They just knew when to keep their mouths shut. And they knew how to play by the Navy's rules. Life, after all, was not much more than one big sabacc game where the cards and players continued to change around you. He could play by the rules just as well as anyone. He just needed to concentrate a bit more. _Stunted attention span._ That's what Ascher used to jokingly tell him.

 _Ascher._

His throat tightened as he pulled his cap on and marched from the mess hall. He knew she'd be expecting him to return her call, even though he hadn't contacted her, as they'd agreed, for a few months now. He _should_ at least congratulate her on her promotion. That would be the _right_ thing to do. But, damn it, she'd ruined it by telling him she missed him. He didn't like people relying on him to act a certain way.

Besides, he reasoned as he walked back down the corridor towards his cabin, there were more important things to do. Like working out how to get off the adverse report, back into Tarroway's good books, and back into the cockpit. And all of it one step at a time.


	3. Chapter 3

**LIFE DEBT**

by CorellianBlue

(first published 1998, updated 2015)

 _Part III_

"Solo, report to my office now."

Tarroway's voice echoed through Lieutenant Solo's mind as he marched down the corridor towards the squadron offices. Solo had been working at a terminal in the Operations Centre, juggling and scheduling spacecraft and crews just like he had for last two Standard months, when Tarroway had called him on the comlink. The lieutenant commander had barely spoken to Solo since he'd sentenced him to assist the senior operations officer, but Han knew that his flight commander had been keeping a close eye on him. He also knew he'd put on a performance that would've been difficult to fault. He had been punctual, shown enthusiasm and diligence in his duties, and he'd actually come to appreciate the work the Ops staff undertook to keep the squadron flying.

When Tarroway had called, Solo's immediate thought was maybe the grounding was over. Then Tarroway had ominously added, "Oh, and bring your cap."

At the thought of what that could possibly imply, Solo subconsciously adjusted the cap on his head.

The door to Tarroway's office was open but Lieutenant Solo came to a half at its threshold.

"Permission to enter, sir," Solo stated.

Tarroway was seated behind his desk, working at his terminal. Without looking up, he motioned for Solo to enter. Han took two steps inside the office, stopped and saluted the senior officer. Tarroway continued with his work while the pilot remained at attention, his hand touching his cap in salute, waiting for Tarroway to return or at least acknowledge the compliment.

After a few minutes, Tarroway looked up at the young lieutenant patiently standing at attention, his salute not yet completed as he awaited acknowledgement. Tarroway smiled wryly as he touched the remote to close the officer door. He nodded at Solo, accepting the salute. Han withdrew his hand, but remained at attention, his eyes fixed straight ahead, looking above and behind Tarroway.

The lieutenant commander rubbed a hand across his chin and considered Solo for a moment longer. Han became aware of his shoulders rising slightly as he inhaled and the pulse flicking at the base of his throat.

"Well, Lieutenant Solo," Tarroway finally said, a touch of sarcasm lacing his tone, "you must be feeling pretty pleased with yourself."

 _Aaahh, shit._ Han's brow furrowed slightly, but he remained stiffly at attention as any hope he'd had of flying again evaporated before his eyes. Strangely though, he couldn't for the life of him work out what he'd done wrong.

"And don't give me that innocent look." Tarroway leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head and smiled again. "How long have you been in Ops?"

Although his voice was not as eager as it had been, Lieutenant Solo did not hesitate. "Fifty-three shifts, sir."

Tarroway nodded. "Good, you've been keeping count. So have you learnt anything else, apart from counting and not attacking an int geek when the boss is around?"

Solo's response was straight from the manual. "Sir, I have learnt that the Operations staff play a vital role in maintaining the flying efficiency of the squadron. Sir."

Tarroway chuckled perceptively. "Now I see why they call you 'Slick'. I had been hoping that you'd tell me how you'd learnt how to keep out of trouble. Because—surprisingly—you've done exactly that. In fact, Solo, you've far exceeded my expectations. I had been expecting you to let me down. I would have bet hard credits on you doing exactly that."

Han had to refrain himself from shaking his head in amazement. Tarroway was actually _complimenting_ him?

"But you've pulled up rather well," Tarroway continued, "and you've even had a positive influence in the Ops Room, as difficult as that may be to believe." The lieutenant commander smiled as the younger man struggled to control the emotions that sparkled in his eyes. "At ease, Lieutenant Solo, before you fall over."

Solo loosened his stance into the 'at ease' position, his back remaining firm and straight as he clasped his hands behind him. It took all his willpower to repress a grin.

"So now you're pleased with yourself?" Tarroway absently rubbed a hand along the edge of his desk. "All right, Solo, by now even you would have realised that your grounding's revoked."

Tarroway ignored the lapse in discipline as a broad grin broke across Solo's face.

"This is the deal. I'm suspending the adverse report on you and closing your bad conduct file. I gave you one last chance and amazingly you came through with the goods. You put up with fifty-three days in Ops and not once did you pester me about when you would fly again. Whether that was good sense or you were just scared of me is irrelevant. The point is that you served your penance and you've proven to me and yourself that you can make a good Imperial officer if you put your mind to it. Correct?"

"Yes, sir!" Lieutenant Solo barked out his agreement like an over-zealous stormtrooper.

Tarroway leaned forward again and rested his elbows on the desk. "And because you've impressed _me_ with your dramatic change in attitude, I'm going to give you an opportunity to impress the ship's upper echelon. Because I think you deserve an even break, and because I need to find a body I can trust to fill a gap. Yes, Solo, I did say 'trust'."

Although Solo was listening intently, Tarroway had already said the thing that was most important—he was no longer grounded. For once, Han was glad he was required to stand at attention, otherwise he might be dancing around the office like some spice-eating fool.

"I've arranged to have you temporarily attached for a special duty. Captain Aamalein's aide is currently..." Tarroway paused as he chose the right word, "...indisposed."

Solo had heard rumours that the aide to the _Gilt Defender's_ captain had fallen from favour. The news had surprised Solo. The captain's aide had graduated with honours from the Academy a year before Han had commenced his studies. Like all military aides he was an excellent pilot, intelligent, well-spoken, immaculately groomed, respectful and subordinate. This particular aide had also been annoyingly cheerful. Depending on who you believed, the lieutenant had either been shipped out to some backwater post, was languishing in the ship's brig, or had been pushed out an airlock. As Solo had never liked the man much, he hoped it was the latter, however he suspected it was more likely one of the other possibilities.

"No," Tarroway continued, "even I'm not stupid enough to suggest placing you as the captain's aide on a permanent basis. But I think you're capable of piloting his shuttle to Triandra and assisting Captain Aamalein until his new aide arrives."

"Yes, sir!"

"I'm sure you're aware how important this duty is, Solo. Only those junior officers identified as having the potential to gain fleet rank are granted access to the higher echelon officers." The lieutenant commander looked at the young pilot earnestly. "This is your opportunity to make yourself known to the captain. And perhaps the next time he needs a lieutenant he is familiar with, one he can trust and rely upon, maybe the name 'Han Solo' will cross his mind."

"Yes, sir!"

The senior officer rose from his seat, paced around the desk, then casually leaned against the front of it.

"After you're finished here, report to the XO for additional clearances, briefings and any tasking he may have for you prior to your departure tomorrow. Then all I want you to do is pilot the captain's personal shuttle to Triandra—no fancy stuff along the way, now, just plain old-fashioned flying. Your only passengers will be Captain Aamalein and his staff officer, Commander Saker. At Triandra, you follow their directions and do whatever they say. You could be a glorified bag-carrier, for all I care, but you do what the man says, understand me? Don't even scratch you ass without his permission."

Tarroway may have been labouring the point but Solo knew his flight commander was placing a lot of faith in someone who had been a consistent disappointment. Although the task may not have been onerous, Solo felt the heavy weight of Tarroway's trust drape across his shoulders. He didn't like the feel of it, but at least it meant he had his wings back.

"Now I haven't gone too fast for you, have I?" Tarroway asked with a sarcastic smile. "Do you think you can handle that, Lieutenant Solo?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Any questions?"

"No, sir!"

The sarcastic smile fell from Tarroway's lips as he approached the young pilot and stopped in front of him, their faces only centimetres apart. Solo felt the other man's breath against his cheek as the senior officer's black eyes stared intently into his own. His head still upright and rigid, Solo quickly averted his gaze and found himself staring at the rank pips on Tarroway's chest.

"You let me down this time, Han," Tarroway said in a deep, measured tone, "you so much as put one foot out of line and I'll personally ruin your life. Understand?"

The lieutenant considered the seriousness of his commander's threat and felt compelled to honestly return his gaze.

"I won't let you down, sir," Han offered simply.

"No. You won't."

Abruptly, Tarroway returned to the chair behind the desk, chuckling as he resumed his seat.

"So Slick's got his wings back," he said to himself. "Look out galaxy."

Han grinned lopsidedly at the lieutenant commander's jest, relieved to have some distance between himself and the other man again.

"Go on, get out of here," Tarroway said gruffly. "You'll be late."

Still smiling, Solo snapped to attention and saluted.

Tarroway dismissed the pilot then called out just before Han turned to leave, "And Solo, keep that idiotic, lopsided grin off your face."


	4. Chapter 4

**LIFE DEBT**

by CorellianBlue

(first published 1998, updated 2015)

 _Part IV_

"Jump to hyperspace complete, sir. Flying time to Triandra Facility four decimal two one hours," Lieutenant Solo called over the shuttle's intercom.

Outside the small ship's cockpit canopy, the confusion of hyperspace whirled by in a multitude of patterns and colors. Solo sat hunched over in the shuttle's sole pilot's seat, his knees knocking uncomfortably against the console as he made final adjustments to the instruments. As much as he was relieved to be flying again, he really hated these personal short-haul shuttles the Empire had procured; not only was the cockpit cramped, the ship had virtually no weapons save for a single laser cannon, relying instead on a vast sensor suite, defensive countermeasures and Imperial bluff. This, combined with the niceties he had to extend to his passengers, Solo felt like a driver for the public transit system. _Have a pleasant flight and thank you for flying Solo Spacelines._

 _No,_ Han scolded himself, _mustn't think like that. Might slip up and say something without thinking._

After all, this was a great opportunity to prove to Tarroway that he could do what was expected. And it really wasn't that hard a task. He could do it in his sleep. Solo yawned and stretched elaborately at this thought, but he had things to attend to at the tech station situated in the aft of the shuttle. As if to jolt him from his seat, the hyperdrive engines began wheezing with effort and a strange knocking commenced from somewhere in the rear of the ship.

 _Great,_ he thought. _All I need is for this bucket to start leaking and that'll really impress the boss._

Ripping the headset from his head, Solo extricated his legs from under the console and swung out of the pilot's seat. He paused to adjust his tunic, settle the Imperial-issued blaster pistol in its high holster and sling his cap onto his head, before heading out the cockpit's sliding doors.

His heart rate increased as he strode down the small corridor and into the shuttle's plush passenger compartment. He could see where the credits were spent on this crate; this may have been a military shuttle, but it would obviously never transport troops. The passenger compartment was luxuriously appointed in a deep, blue-grey quilting, with gold-plated trimmings around the transparisteel viewports. Along one bulkhead were four rows of over-stuffed, twin passenger seats upholstered in a rich blue fabric, and on the other side were four massive conform chairs in matching fabric, mounted on broad, swivelling bases.

The shuttle's only passengers, Captain Aamalein and Commander Saker, were now sprawled in these seats, the softness of the chairs now conforming to and supporting their bodies, while they concentrated on datapads extending from the chair arm rests.

Lieutenant Solo approached Captain Aamalein and dutifully stood fast, trying to anticipate what the captain would say, trying to formulate an appropriate response, and trying to calm his racing heart. At least Solo successfully repressed an old nervous habit of wiping his damp palms down the seams of his trousers. It vaguely occurred to him, as he swallowed deeply, he hadn't even displayed that trait for during his time at the Academy.

The captain glanced up from his datapad, his pale blue eyes briefly acknowledging the young pilot's presence. Despite the greying hair and moustache, Aamalein's face was relatively unmarked and his physique spoke of strength and discipline. Solo knew Aamalein was well-respected amongst his peers. However unlike some of his fellow officers, the respect Aamalein elicited from subordinates was derived from admiration, skill and experience as opposed to simple fear. _Well,_ Han considered as he swallowed again, _maybe just a hint of fear._

Captain Aamalein's attention remained fixed on the screen as he wearily asked, "Yes, Lieutenant?"

Solo held his head high and directed his response to the bulkhead. "Sir, if you have no further duties, I'd like permission to run diagnostics through the tech station," he managed to ask without stammering.

The captain raised an eyebrow and looked askance at Han, his brow furrowing at the simplicity of the request. He snorted in good humor, traded bemused smirks with Commander Saker. Still steadfastly at attention, Solo replayed the request in his mind as he wondered if he had asked the wrong question or used the wrong tone.

Saker murmured from his chair, "My, you are playing things safe, Solo."

Though lightly said, the observation dripped with malice, and Han realised that Tarroway must have advised Saker and Aamalein that Lieutenant Solo's conduct record was blemished and this duty was his opportunity to redeem himself. Han wondered how much that insight would stack the deck against him.

Aamalein smiled and nodded in agreement, but made a restraining hand gesture at the older commander. He collected a glass of golden alcohol from the table in front of him and stared up at Han, turning the container in his fingers as he watched a muscle twitch along the young pilot's jaw. Aamalein sipped at his drink and waited.

 _It's just a game,_ Solo tried to convince himself as he stood there, eyes locked on the bulkhead and rear teeth grinding together. _Ride it out._

He relaxed his jaw sufficiently to stop the muscles jumping. His larynx bobbed as he swallowed again, hard and dry this time.

"Permission granted," the captain told him and returned to his datapad.

Eager to be away from the senior officers, Solo quickly departed the compartment, moving past the shuttle's sleeping cabins and refresher units into the small tech area. He spent the next hour conducting diagnostic tests and analysing the performance of the ship's tiny, underpowered hyperdrive engines. He determined that the negative power coupling of the drive unit required replacing before too long, and apart from re-routing power away from a few of the ship's minor systems towards the engines, there was not much he could do beside curse the inadequacies of the shuttle.

Wwith still a good three hours until they emerged from hyperspace, and unable to justify spending more time at the tech station, Solo returned to his post in the cockpit, hoping to make it without further interaction with his superiors.

As he passed through the passenger compartment, Solo noticed the lights had been dimmed. Commander Saker snored quietly from his chair, however Captain Aamalein had his chair turned towards one of the viewports and was gazing out at the maelstrom of hyperspace. The captain swiveled around in the chair at the sound of Han's boot steps.

"Finally finished, Lieutenant?" Aamalein asked quietly.

Solo braced himself to attention. "Yes, sir."

Aamalein nodded in the direction of Saker. "So is the Commander. He can sleep anywhere."

The captain regarded the young pilot silently, almost haughtily. Solo tried not to fidget under the intense scrutiny. He had never appreciated anyone studying him for any length of time, especially superiors. It did not take long for his discomfort to overcome his subordination.

Working on the premise that if you said enough 'sirs', you could get away with anything, Han said, "Sir, if you have no further duties, I'd like permission to return to—"

Aamalein suddenly proffered his empty glass. "Get me a drink, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

Han took the glass and refilled it from an expensive-looking bottle in the refreshments cabinet. He savoured the strong aroma as he passed the glass back to Aamalein. Aamalein watched him inquisitively, his eyes searching Han's face with light amusement.

"That will be all, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

Solo braced again and returned to the cockpit.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Han half-fell into the pilot's seat as he loosened the front of his tunic. He pulled his cap off, threw it against the cockpit canopy. _Thank Kest that's over._

He decided the only way to preserve his sanity and to stay out of trouble was to remain in the cockpit for the rest of the trip, so he busied himself by checking out the readouts of the instruments. It did not take long for that activity to lose his interest, and not much later he was leaning back in the seat with legs stretched up across the instrument console as he gazed out the cockpit. His hand wandered down to the blaster pistol and he absently plucked at the impractical holster, wishing he could wear his own. As if to prove the uselessness of the holster's design, he practiced his speed-draw for a few minutes. The pistol's sights, not at all assisted by his idle pose, continually caught on the edge of the holster. Bored with his practice, he yawned and twirled the blaster around his finger.

"What are you doing, Lieutenant?"

Solo's legs slipped from the console as he twisted around in the seat, fumbling to holster the pistol. Captain Aamalein stood in the open cockpit hatchway, his strong features creased into a frown. He held two glasses in front of him.

"Uh, um ..." Solo stumbled to his feet and hastily adjusted his tunic. _Moron._

Aamalein casually seated himself at the comms and countermeasures station. Han stood before his captain, preparing for a rebuke and kicking himself for letting his guard down.

"Here." Aamalein held one of the glasses towards Han. "You look like you could do with a drink."

Solo eyed the glass warily, as if it was a poisonous reptile.

"I don't like to drink alone," Aamalein explained, "and seeing as Saker won't be on deck this side of Triandra, I thought you might like to join me."

Solo's eyes switched from the older man to the glass and back again, hoping the captain would give away some hint as to whether or not he should accept the drink.

Aamalein impatiently gestured with the glass again. "It's a drink, son. Not a test."

Solo cautiously took the glass. "Th-thank you, sir."

"Sit."

Solo obeyed, returning to his seat in the pilot's chair which now faced the captain. Aamalein rubbed a forefinger around the edge of the glass. Han sat on the edge of his seat, his glass cupped gingerly in the palm of his hand.

"The Empire." Aamalein raised his glass in salute, touched it to his lips and sipped the golden liquid. "Finest Alderaani tsalon."

Han hesitantly followed Aamalein's lead. The tsalon slipped warmly into his mouth, leaving a satisfying, burning sensation in his throat. He curbed a smile, felt the tension ease in his neck and shoulders.

Aamalein noticed the younger man had relaxed slightly. "Not bad, hey?"

"Yes, sir."

Solo looked down into his glass, uncertain where he should look, what he should do or say, or even if he should be in this position with his captain. Aamalein certainly wasn't acting the way he imagined an Imperial captain should. Solo wondered if Aamalein was crazy, drunk or both.

Aamalein tasted the tsalon again, eased himself deeper into the chair and extended his long legs out in front of him. "Do you know why I'm going to Triandra?" he asked.

Maybe this _was_ a test after all.

"Sir, it is not my business to know what the Captain's business is," Han replied quickly.

"Or to say so if you do know," Aamalein agreed. "Point taken."

The swirling flashes and shadows of hyperspace played across the captain's face as he smoothed his moustache with thumb and forefinger.

"I'll be attending a strategic meeting of the Corellian Sector of Surveillance and Reconnaissance Command," the captain explained. "Triandra seemed as good a place as any to hold it."

The Triandra Convention and Conference Facility was an immense commercially-operated space station located at the crossroads of significant interstellar trade routes. Sitting in geosynchronous orbit above a moonlet of the fourth planet in the Triandra System, the Facility offered a convenient location to hold conventions, conferences, and exhibitions. The station housed large, open area display sections, lecture theatres, holovid theatres, conference rooms, entertainment lounges, and extensive accommodation suites. Han had never been to Triandra; it was a place frequented by business operators, traders and those who were more affluent than he had ever been.

"It's also a good excuse to catch up with a few old colleagues and friends." Aamalein glanced out the cockpit, squinting as if trying to discern shapes from the atrophy. "I'm sure you've heard what goes on at these conferences. We discuss missions, plan strategies and develop goals. And a few of the more impudent amongst us like to raise controversial points. Things such as recruitment targets and strategies, training development programs, personnel retention figures, conditions of service, and that catch-all—morale."

Lieutenant Solo tried to look dutifully attentive, but he didn't think there was anything of value for him in the captain's speech. Still, it couldn't hurt to play along.

"Why?" Captain Aamalein continued. "I believe we need to have an intimate knowledge of the psyche of our personnel. You see, as an Imperial commander, it is imperative for me to know what drives and motivates my men. What their concerns are. How they think. Not through any altruistic concern for their welfare, but because I must know and anticipate how they'll react in a combat situation. And once I know how they think and react, I can develop strategies to stop them thinking as a disorganised group of individuals, and to start them acting and thinking as a team with common goals—my goals." Aamalein's attention returned to the younger man. "Yet no matter how successful I am at shaping them into a unified, cohesive force, I always run across someone who doesn't quite fit in, who continues to act as an individual. No matter what they do, or how hard they try, or pretend, or hide, for some reason they're just not suited to military life."

Aamalein paused and sipped his drink. "So, what are you doing here, Lieutenant?"

Solo froze, the glass halfway to his mouth. He knew 'drinking' wasn't the correct answer. "Sir?"

The captain gestured with his glass. "Solo—it is Solo, isn't it?—Solo, why did you join the Imperial Navy? Why did you spend three years of your life locked away at the Academy?" He gestured around the cockpit. "What's your story? Why are you here?"

"To serve the Empire, sir," Lieutenant Solo shot back smoothly.

Aamalein smiled to himself. "I was told you were as slick as shit." Then his smile melted and his tone became serious. "I've been briefed on your background. I know the problems you've had with discipline, with rules and regulations. With doing as you're told. Always the individual."

Solo opened his mouth in protest but caught the dark glint in Aamalein's eyes and held his silence.

"Don't pretend with me, Solo. You hate this life," Aamalein said simply. "It's in your eyes."

Han quickly looked down into his glass again.

"You may love to fly," the captain continued, "but you have dissonance about the rest of it. And the discipline is only partly what you don't like. Being in the military isn't part of your genetic makeup. And it's got to be in the blood, it's got to be something you live and breathe—the very essence of who you are. Otherwise you're wasting your time and mine."

The captain's tone became more earnest. "I do this because my father did it, and his father did it, and his father before him." A self-satisfied, whimsical smile touched Aamalein's lips. "And now my sons are at the Academy and they'll follow in my footsteps.

Eyes still averted, Solo drained his glass as if it was sweetened ice water. He felt as if Aamalein had reached into his skull and was dissecting his mind with a vibroblade, analysing each slice with the finesse of an autopsy droid. His mind raced for something to do or say. With any luck, the hyperdrive might start acting up again. Maybe he could use that as an excuse. But apart from that, he was fresh out of ideas.

"What line of business is your father in?"

Although the question was softly spoken and unthreatening, Solo's throat tightened as he swallowed the last of the tsalon. Unabashed, he returned the captain's stare for the first time.

"He was a free trader," Han said quietly.

Aamalein gave a dismissive half-laugh. "Isn't that Corellian for 'smuggler'?"

Han continued to stare at Aamalein. He'd heard this stuff before. Long ago.

"Now I'm wondering how you even got into the Academy," Aamalein considered distantly.

The young pilot clenched his jaw and cleared his throat.

"I won't advocate a life of crime," Aamalein offered, "but if the military is not in your blood, you could always give this away and help your father set up a legitimate haulage business."

"He's dead." Han's face hardened, but his voice was low and measured. "My father." _Da._ "Got killed when a business deal went wrong."

"That must have been some deal!" Aamalein opined glibly.

Han's response was barely audible. "Wasn't quick enough on the draw."

The captain pursed his lips in contemplation, and a softness that could have passed for understanding crossed his face. "So you joined up to make your mother happy? Redeem the family name?"

Han cleared his throat again. _This is no one's business but mine._ "No, she…she…she died before him. When I was a kid."

Aamalein leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. "So enlighten me, Solo." He shook his head questioningly. "Why did you join up?"

The question elicited the only real truth Han seemed to know about himself, the only certainty he had ever known. "To fly."

The captain raised his eyebrows and shook his head more vigorously. "That's not enough for me, the Navy, or the Empire."

"Look," Han said tightly, "sir. I'll admit, I've had a few problems. But I've proven to Lieutenant Commander Tarroway I'm over those. He's entrusted me with this mission and I've given him my word I won't let him down." He raised a forefinger to emphasise his point. "I'm a damn good pilot. You won't get rid of me that easy. And I'll be damned if you make me break my word to Tarroway."

Han realised he was shaking slightly, a combination of anger, indignation and fear. He lowered his forefinger as he realised that he'd just lectured the ship's captain. They didn't need to kick him out the front door—he was well and truly capable of diving out the nearest window by himself. _Oh, you're a chue'llan moron, Solo. You had to open your big, stupid mouth. You should've shoved a foot in it for a change._

Aamalein slowly rose to his full height, towering over Han as the young pilot remained seated. Solo returned the man's gaze; there was no point in being coy about what he'd just said.

The captain appraised him coolly. "I'll give you this much, son. You've got more guts than I had at your age. Maybe not too many brains, but then you are a pilot, after all."

Aamalein nearly chuckled to himself. "You're lucky I'm in a good mood, and that I've had a few of these." Aamalein swirled the contents of his glass. "Otherwise we might be having this conversation in the brig with the cell hatch between us." The captain downed the remains of his tsalon. "But understand this much, Solo. Never take that tone with me again." He took the other glass from Han's hand. "I had hoped what I had to say might've made a difference to you. Maybe it has. Maybe it was just the tsalon which got you talking like you didn't care. Made you border on insubordination. I'm undecided at the moment. But rest assured I'll be watching you from now on. I think we both need to re-consider your career options."

Aamalein turned and left the cockpit.

Alone again, Solo put his head in his hands and dragged his fingers through his hair. _What the hell was that about?_

He wondered if Aamalein was now relating the encounter to Saker, chuckling amongst themselves. Maybe this was a game they played with unsuspecting junior officers. And how much of this would get back to Tarroway? Not much, he vainly hoped.

Solo looked over at the hyperdrive chrono. Kest, it was going to be a long flight to Triandra.


	5. Chapter 5

**LIFE DEBT**

by CorellianBlue

(first published 1998, updated 2015)

 _Part V_

The moon rotated in orbit, a nameless, misshapen, pockmarked rock. Neither the reflected radiation from its gaseous parent planet, nor rays from the distant sun, could brighten the satellite's dull, lifeless surface. If it wasn't for its own rather flamboyant satellite, this moonlet might have gone unnoticed along with countless other unremarkable astronomical bodies in the Triandra System.

The two interconnected silver discs of the Triandra Convention and Conference Facility slowly revolved as it sat high in orbit above the dull moon. The combined light from the system's sole star, the nearby purplish gas giant, and the twinkling running lights of the station reflected into the shuttle's cockpit. Lieutenant Solo swiped an annoyed hand to adjust the canopy's screening in order to dull the ambient light that flooded into his eyes.

The larger of the space station's bulbous discs measured five kilometres across. This disc was the heart of the Facility, housing the display and conference facilities, the convention halls, the entertainment lounges and theatres, the restaurants and cafes. The station's external docking bays jutted out from a segment of the disc like stubby fingers. Even at this distance, Solo could discern literally thousands of craft of myriad makes and sizes shuffling along in orderly manner as they conducted, or waited to conduct, docking procedures. Further out past the traffic congestion, he identified half a dozen Imperial carriers of various classes, all bearing the insignia of Surveillance and Reconnaissance Command.

Connected to the larger disc by a lattice of gridwork, and turbolift and utility shafts, the smaller disc contained the hotel complex, offering a range of accommodation from extensive suites to small cabins. The domed roof of the Facility's biosphere capped off this disc. The biosphere contained the station's self-sufficient farm, providing edible vegetation in addition to acting as a filter and oxygen generator for the environmental control system. Extending from the biosphere, like some massive bird's tails, were segments of the solar panel array, which provided most of the station's energy supply.

Solo had to admit he was impressed. He had heard that the Triandra Facility was a dynamic and dazzling amalgam of design and engineering, its external shell a rather appropriate wrapping for the fun and excitement the glitzy advertising brochures promised lay within. He wondered after he had ditched Aamalein and Saker at the conference if he'd have time to check out the Facility's attractions. Perhaps even try out one of the casinos. Although everything that had happened to him in the last two months didn't make him feel particularly lucky, that had never stopped him from warming a seat at a sabacc game before. Even after the lecture he'd received from his captain, Han grudgingly conceded that maybe this task would turn out all right after all.

The station's traffic control had already positively identified the shuttle from the code the Identification Friend or Foe transponder squawked, and Solo reluctantly relinquished control of the shuttle to the precision approach guidance system. The shuttle now glided in towards the docking bays in front of the other ships, the military IFF code according it priority in front of the civilian craft.

As the shuttle slipped past the line of traffic, Solo noticed a boxy shuttle depart from a nearby military transport which had seen better days. The transport bore the markings of the Imperial Survey and Engineering Corps and Han momentarily wondered what business a SEC ship would have at a conference and entertainment complex like Triandra. But the SEC shuttle drifted into line behind him, the docking bay grid loomed ahead, and Solo returned his attention back to the task at hand.

The external docking bay's tractor beam took over from the guidance system, cradling the shuttle as it slowly adjusted the small craft's position. Han watched intently out the cockpit as the shuttle was rotated so its airlock could fit snugly against the docking airlock and access tube. He swore under his breath in the hope the automatic docking procedures wouldn't dent or scratch this excuse for a military transport vehicle.

With docking complete and clearance given by a disembodied droid voice from Traffic Control, Lieutenant Solo toggled on the shuttle's internal comms.

"Docking maneuvers complete, sir. Disembarkation may commence at your discretion."

Solo glanced at the neighbouring bay as the battered hulk of the other military shuttle was drawn into place. He returned the other pilot's raised hand acknowledgment, then hurried from the cockpit, adjusting his uniform and cap before entering the passenger compartment. _Don't screw up this time, Solo,_ he warned himself. _Stay sharp. Stay focused._

Aamalein turned from the viewport at Solo's approach, gave the lieutenant a dismissive glance as he switched off the datapad. The captain sipped the remaining tsalon from his glass, then studied the lieutenant more intently, turning the glass in his hand as if measuring its weight and dimensions. For a brief moment, Han thought Aamalein was going to shy the glass at his head, but the captain smiled to himself and placed it on the table.

Aamalein rose from his seat and prodded the snoring form of Commander Saker. Saker woke with a start, his breath caught in mid-snore, and gagged as he struggled to gain his composure.

"Stand to, Saker," Aamalein admonished. "The flyboy's got us here in one piece."

Saker stood up, whirled on Solo who was respectfully waiting behind his chair and glared at him accusingly. "What are you gawking at, Solo?"

Respectively averting his eyes, Han answered crisply, "Excuse me, sir." His rear teeth ground together and a nerve twitched down his cheek.

Solo collected the luggage and briefcases as the senior officers prepared themselves for disembarkation, then followed as they entered Triandra Facility via the airlock and access tube.

Three pairs of immaculate Imperial boots clacked in cadence on the polished tiled floor as they marched down the corridor. As they had docked in the military bays, the corridor led directly to the rest of the Facility without having to pass through the bustle, queues and tedium of the customs hall.

Solo adjusted his hold on the luggage and briefcases; they weren't heavy, only cumbersome to handle. Where was a valet droid when you needed one?

"Don't scratch the leather," Aamalein murmured as a briefcase half-slipped from under Solo's arm.

"No, sir." _Does the man have eyes in the back of his head?_ Han stopped to resettle his burden. _Stay sharp. Stay focused._

The captain and the commander discussed the conference as they continued on ahead. Solo jammed the briefcase under his armpit, tightened his grip on the other pieces, and leant forward as he pushed off again. But his cap tilted slightly and threatened to fall off, so he placed the luggage down again while he settled it on his head.

"Don't fall behind, Solo," Saker lectured from down the corridor.

 _Sharp and focused._ "No, sir."

"Surely even you can carry luggage."

"Yes, sir."

Han collected the luggage, and moved off after Aamalein and Saker, increasing his pace whilst attempting not to look rushed or flustered. He hoped his superiors couldn't detect the anger he glared into their upright backs as they marched away from him. _Think of your wings. Sharp and focused._

The young pilot marched in time to his _'sharp and focused'_ mantra, grinding his teeth with each step, each word. He knew he should have better control of his scant temper, just like he should learn to control his wise cracking mouth. He thought that after spending fifty-three shifts in Ops and skinning his ass on an adverse report he would have known better. Part of him was still furious with himself for screwing up with Captain Aamalein, for allowing himself to be riled by Aamalein's attack on a part of his life he didn't—wouldn't—care about any more. Part of him itched to take a swing at Saker's smug face. And, buried deep within, a part he tried to ignore quietly suggested maybe Aamalein's assessment of him was accurate.

Ahead of Solo, the wall to his left came to an end as the arm of the corridor leading to the neighboring docking bay joined their corridor. By the time he reached the point where the corridors met, Han had caught up to the senior officers, and his jaw and mood had loosened slightly. He tried to concentrate on what Aamalein and Saker were discussing in case it related to him, or something he might have to do or arrange.

A strong, musky smell assailed Solo's nostrils and he turned to look down the adjoining corridor. A huge, snarling mass of red-brown hair suddenly appeared in his vision. Han saw a flash of white canine teeth, felt warm saliva splash across his face, heard a harsh, guttural growl warn him away. He instinctively backed away, desperately clutching the cases, and refocused to take in the scene as a whole.

A massive, shaggy humanoid loomed over him, its jaws open and black lips pulled back to bare sharp, fighting fangs. Wasted muscles rippled beneath long, russet hair, and the bulbous black nose sniffed and twitched. Despite the dull, lank hair and rather poor physical condition, the creature was a formidable tower of strength and repressed energy.

Solo relaxed as he recognised the slavers collar around the creature's neck, and a chuckling SEC major remotely release a burst of crackling energy from the collar. The creature snarled nastily at his handler, received another, larger shock for its defiance, then grumbled insolently and adjusted its hold on the heavy utility locker it carried.

"Watch it there, knuck," the SEC major called out to Han. "You'd make a nice little snack for the Wook, and I know for a fact he missed lunch."

Solo had seen holos of Wookiees before, but he'd never seen one in the flesh. The Wookiee homeworld of Kashyyyk had been placed under martial law and all Wookiees had been enslaved to support the Imperial effort. Free Wookiees were rarely, if ever, seen. Those who weren't slaves had been off-planet when the Empire had originally annexed Kashyyyk. Those still free now roamed the galaxy as bounty hunters, traders, smugglers and pirates.

"What's going on, Lieutenant Solo?" Saker snapped.

Solo cringed as the SEC major tweaked the collar remote again. The Wookiee didn't flinch at the minor shock, but his intelligent blue eyes burned dark with anger and frustration. The Wookiee resentfully stared at Han, as if the young pilot was the cause of his punishment.

"Lieutenant Solo?"

The SEC major prodded the Wookiee's emaciated ribs with a short shock baton to move him along.

"Just giving your boy a bit of a scare, sir," the SEC major said gleefully as he moved past Aamalein and Saker.

Solo watched the major and the Wookiee shuffle down the corridor, then cursed himself for not drawing his blaster in the face of the danger that had just passed. No, he'd been too concerned with carrying the luggage at the time, of not scratching Aamalein's precious briefcase. _Nice way to get yourself killed, Solo,_ he thought. _So much for all that range practice. Moron._

"Keep your mind focused, Solo," Aamalein advised.

Han smiled ruefully. _Focused, huh? Now why didn't_ I _think of that?_ "Yes, sir." He gathered the cases again and hurried after the senior officers.

Within a few metres they had caught up with the major and his slave. The major formally acknowledged Aamalein and Saker this time as they fell into line with him. Solo found himself marching along next to the Wookiee, slightly out in front and to the side of the senior officers.

"How are you this evening, sir?" the major asked Aamalein.

While his seniors spoke inconsequentially of mutual acquaintances and superiors, Han tried not to stare too obviously at the Wookiee. The Wookiee studiously tried to ignore the young Imperial officer at his side, but the furtive glances either annoyed him or got the better of him and he burbled out the side of his mouth at Han in his grunting, growling language. Despite his grasp of alien tongues, Han couldn't decipher the words the Wookiee spoke but he interpreted the intent as meaning _'What are you looking at?'_ Han grinned appreciatively; the Wookiee was a slave in body only.

The Wookiee caught Han's grin and turned to study the man as they walked along, each carrying their burdens. Solo squirmed uncomfortably as the solemn blue eyes seemed to look right through him. The Wookiee growled and grunted, nodding at the locker he held, at the luggage Han carried, and glanced back at Aamalein. Han was momentarily taken aback at what he thought the Wookiee was suggesting.

"Well I'm not the one with a collar round my throat," he sneered.

The blue eyes narrowed and looked at Solo dangerously. The pilot returned the Wookiee's dark glare, his sneer twitching into a mocking smile. The Wookiee's grip on the utility locker tightened, his claws clacking against the dull metal surface. Solo imagined what those paws could do to human bones, how the claws could shred flesh as easily as paper. Yet another reason to be thankful the shaggy humanoid was on the right side of a slavers collar.

The Wookiee yelped as a charge emitted from the collar. His eyes slid sideways towards the SEC major.

"Retract them, Wook," the major stated firmly.

The Wookiee's eyes returned to Han as another jolt ripped through his body, but the claws remained extended and continued to drum against the utility locker. Solo's smug smile faded as the blue eyes held his.

"Retract the claws," the major warned, pushing the collar's remote again.

Solo grimaced as the Wookiee silently accepted the punishment, but refused to do as ordered. Han felt his own hands clench into fists around the handles of the luggage, his stomach twisting into knots as he tried to impassively view the Wookiee's ordeal. He'd never been able to stand by and watch as someone was tormented. He remembered as a child how an older cousin used to gain particular satisfaction from torturing and teasing younger children. Even if not on the receiving end of the harassment, Han usually ended up attacking his cousin in an attempt to stop him. More often than not, his cousin turned his full attention to Han and, being younger and slighter, Han would end up a bruised and bloodied mess and with a parental reprimand for starting the fight in the first place. Now, as then, Solo knew there was nothing he could do to stop the torture.

The Wookiee stumbled as the agony increased, his hold on the utility locker slipped and Han suddenly found himself dropping the luggage and helping the Wookiee resettle his hold on the heavy locker. Wookiee and human regarded each other from opposite sides of the metal case. Han could feel the Wookiee's fingers brush against his, the claws tracing the tendons and veins on the back of his hands.

The Wookiee's expressive eyes widened in puzzlement and he frowned at the pilot. Hoping to avert any alarm which might lead to violence, Han countered the Wookiee's baffled look with all the openness and honesty he could muster. The Wookiee retracted his claws.

"Outta the way, knuck," the major growled as he pulled Solo away. "This Wookiee's a human-killer." The major jammed the shock baton under the Wookiee's chin. "And he's gotta learn some discipline."

Han numbly turned away as the Wookiee howled at the pain burning through his skull. He glanced at his superiors. Open contempt slated Saker's face, but it was the cold, glassy stare and firmly set mouth of Aamalein which made Solo's heart thump loudly in his chest. The senior officers bade terse farewells to the major as he continued to torture the Wookiee. They glared at the young pilot again, then moved off down the corridor.

The Wookiee's anger and distress reverberated through Han as he retrieved the luggage. He cursed himself for letting his emotions get the better of him, desperately yelling at himself in an attempt to drown out the Wookiee's howls. Noticing the scratched leather of Aamalein's briefcase, he gathered the luggage and hurried after his superiors, determined not to turn his head to view the Wookiee's pain.

The corridor suddenly ended and Solo found himself at the edge of the loud, bright excitement which was Triandra Facility. He wanted to slow down to take in the myriad sights, sound and aromas, to make sense of the bright lights and colors, to read the signs and numerous alien and human faces. But Aamalein and Saker kept up their pace, and he could feel the hostility radiating from the corridor behind him.

Solo's pulse hammered in his ears. His reaction to the treatment of the Wookiee disturbed him; perhaps he was getting soft in his old age. _No,_ he thought, _just not thinking before acting. Same old problem. Same old Slick._

Still holding the cases, he wiped his glistening forehead on the sleeve of his tunic and continued on. _Sharp and focused._

The outer reaches of the Facility closest to the docking bays could have been described as the veritable sealed sample for tourist traps. There was almost a marketplace atmosphere to the place, something which reminded Han of Treasure Ship Row, his old childhood/teenage haunt back on Corellia. Vendors, touters and hawkers paraded out the front of information kiosks, souvenir shops, cafes, restaurants and bars, enticing, cajoling, berating, even pleading for business. Affluent beings from innumerable star systems wandered through the stalls, shops and information displays, either under their own power, on personal transportation devices, or on the various moving walkways snaking through the Facility. Beings breathed through noses, trunks, probosci, respirators, environmental helmets and a dozen other different life-support apparatus.

Despite the overwhelming multitude of odours, perfumes and scents wafting from the stalls, food halls and beings themselves, there was one unmistakable smell which caught Han's attention and made him momentarily forget about the Wookiee. Triandra smelt of money, reeked of wealth. Wealth was displayed in almost as many ways as there were beings. From appendages and orifices bejeweled in precious stones and metals, to attire of the finest cloths, the Facility's tourists weren't just rolling in credits, they were made of them.

Solo felt his mood lighten as the exuberance of the Facility reached through to him, and he tried not to gaze about with open-eyed wonder. He managed to offload the luggage onto a passing valet droid, ensuring the inelegant, multi-appendaged automaton followed him as he kept in line behind Aamalein and Saker. At the turbolift station, Solo officiously ordered both humans and non-humans alike out of the turbolift that Aamalein had chosen to take to the accommodation disc.

Solo watched the muscles in Aamalein's cheek flex as the older man impassively considered the junior officer, almost as if determining how much or little of Han's behaviour with the Wookiee was cancelled out by this display of Imperial arrogance. The short turbolift ride seemed interminably long to Han, and he could feel the sweat trickling down his back, his tunic uncomfortably tight and hot around his neck.

At the accommodation courtesy desk, Aamalein and his entourage received key passes to their respective rooms. Solo escorted Aamalein and Saker to their adjoining lavish suites on the sixteenth level. He made sure the valet droid carefully deposited the luggage in their rooms before dismissing it.

Lieutenant Solo stood at attention in the middle of the extravagantly furnished, burgundy-coloured suite, his bag flopped rather incongruously at his feet, eyes locked ahead in the direction of Aamalein but not looking directly at him. Saker and Aamalein quietly conferred near the viewport, speaking in the hushed tones of men used to discussing sensitive matters in the presence of others.

Solo's next duty was to escort the senior officers to a formal dinner with the other commanders and their executive officers. Han couldn't think of anything worse than mixing with his colleagues, who would most likely be dull and subordinate. He also flinched at the thought of having to sit patiently while their bosses ate and drank their way through the night. But he would do what was expected of him and pretend to enjoy it if it meant keeping his wings. If it meant Aamalein that might forget his indiscretion with the Wookiee.

 _Damn that Wookiee._

Han couldn't help but think about the shaggy humanoid again. What was the SEC major doing at Triandra with a Wookiee slave? The Survey and Engineering Corps used Wookiees to perform the back-breaking, complex work requiring the dexterity and strength of expendable sentients. They certainly didn't use them as errand boys; Wookiees were far too dangerous and unpredictable for that. But the major had also treated the Wookiee with a strange familiarity, as if it was a pet.

Saker took his leave of Aamalein before retiring to his own suite through the connecting door while Aamalein tasked Solo with minor duties and errands. Han listened intently, respectively saying "Yes, sir" at the appropriate cues, ensuring he didn't miss one iota of a direction. The captain's demeanor gave no indication whether his evaluation of the younger man had changed. However Han knew that Aamalein's opinion of him could only improve.

After Aamalein abruptly dismissed him, Han saluted, hitched his bag over his shoulder and headed off to find his own room. With his superiors safely behind closed doors, Solo's purposeful march was replaced by a more relaxed amble as he headed back towards the turbolifts. The stiff collar of the tunic still scratched at his throat and an unexplained tightness constricted his chest.

On impulse, he decided to take the emergency stairs to the first level where his room was located, feeling a sudden urge to run. The slapping of his boots on the stairs echoed down the stairwell after him, and his pace increased as if his need to run had become a race, though he didn't know who, or what, he was racing against. He took the stairs two or three at a time, swinging around each landing with a hand on the balustrade, his pilot's coordination and agility ensuring he maintained his balance. He didn't stop running until he was halfway down the corridor leading to the basic rate rooms, and only then after he had nearly bumped into a rather startled being wavered its antennae at him and huffed in disgust. He walked the rest of the way to his room, now having an excuse for his heart to be pounding in his chest.

Once inside the cramped room, Solo removed his holster and tunic and hung them over the back of the chair that nestled under a small desk. Sweat stained his black, lightweight undershirt, but he left it on as protection against the slight chill in the air. He groaned with relief as he flopped onto the small bed, running a hand over his face and through his short hair. He glanced at his wrist chrono. He had about an hour before Aamalein expected him again. Time to freshen up, relax and to stop thinking about that damn Wookiee.

He pulled a pillow over his head and lay there for a moment. His breathing and heart rate returned to normal, but the tightness in his chest remained. Angrily pushing himself off the bed, he grabbed his bag to put away his clothes. He hung up the items of uniform, then carefully retrieved his heavy blaster pistol from one of the bag's internal pockets. He had hastily stuffed the blaster into the bag while he was packing for this trip. He knew he wouldn't get a chance to practice with it, and he knew he wasn't allowed to wear a non-approved weapon in public. But he liked to think the custom-made blaster was an extension of who he was, an integral part of his personality, so it had only seemed natural to bring it along.

Solo settled back onto the bed again as he checked out the blaster, rubbing lint from the barrel with the front of his shirt. He brought the sights up to his face and looked through the macroscope. Through the scope he saw the reflection of himself in the room's small mirror: a fresh-faced young man in black shirt, boots and trousers, his legs pulled up onto the bed, short-cut hair slightly awry. Depending on the viewpoint, the target he presented was either a half-dressed Imperial pilot, or a man just out of his teens fooling around with his father's blaster.

Han lowered the weapon, turned from his image and tucked the blaster under the pillow.

He now had less than an hour before he started proving to Aamalein that Tarroway hadn't made a mistake in tasking him with this duty. He brushed the back of his tunic as it hung from the chair, and decided to take a cycle through the shared refresher facilities down the corridor. Then he would heading up to Aamalein's suite a few minutes early to show his sincerity and dedication. It couldn't hurt.

"Sharp and focused," he said out loud to himself. _Slick as shit and twice as classy._

For the first time since commencing this trip, he grinned as he considered the simplicity of the task that lay ahead. Any idiot could be a captain's aide for a few days. Kest, idiocy was probably a prerequisite for all he knew. What could possibly go wrong?


	6. Chapter 6

**LIFE DEBT**

by CorellianBlue

(first published 1998, updated 2015)

 _Part VI_

 _One thousand four hundred and thirty-six._

Tarroway was right: he had learnt to count during his time in Operations. Solo smiled ruefully to himself. There were 1,436 small diamond-shaped ceramic tiles inset in the anteroom's domed ceiling; he knew there were exactly that many because he had spent the last 30 minutes counting them.

He rubbed his neck, the muscles stiff and sore from craning his head back for such a long time. The ashen-faced lieutenant sitting next to him on the sofa cleared his throat disdainfully, pursed his lips as if to say something, then returned to the datapad on his lap.

Solo had had enough.

For the last six hours Solo had been holed up in this anteroom with 25 naval lieutenants while they waited for their superiors to finish dining in the adjacent formal banquet room. His colleagues had virtually ignored him, which was fine with Solo until he discovered they also refused to speak to him, even when he'd casually asked somebody how long these things usually lasted. At first Solo had assumed that the aides didn't speak to each other out of some sort of archaic protocol. But when Han realised they talked to anybody _except_ him, even the occasional droid attendant, he supposed he was ignored because they didn't know him. It probably didn't help that he didn't wear the silver lightning flash insignia of an aide on his collar. It probably also didn't help that the other aides had more than likely looked up his service record and determined he wasn't _worthy_ of their company.

The gulf was further highlighted when Solo realised he was the only one in the room with nothing to keep himself occupied. While the other aides worked on their personal datapads, accessed the room's comms and data terminals, and discussed matters of state and war with each other, Han had to content himself with sitting still, which he had found increasingly difficult to do. To top it all off, he was starving. It hadn't occurred to him to grab something to eat _before_ reporting to Aamalein. It was now close to 12 hours since he'd last eaten, and his stomach grumbled at an embarrassingly loud level.

"What's your problem, pal?" Solo asked his neighbour.

The man glanced up from his datapad, a bemused look on his face. He pursed his pale lips, opened them to speak, half-smiled in an enigmatic way and returned to his work. Han could feel his upper lip curl as he prepared to launch either a torrent of abuse or a sharp jab to the decidedly fragile-looking chin. Fortunately an unfamiliar wave of discretion hit him, and he responded by rising from his seat and pacing the floor for what must have been the twentieth time. He regretted the movement immediately, any exercise reminding him just how hungry he was.

With hands jammed inappropriately into his pockets, he marched the length of the room towards the data terminals. He reached the end of the room and finding nothing had changed since the last time he had visited, spun on the ball of his foot and retraced his steps, prowling like a caged animal. The bemused smiles Solo received from his colleagues forced him to identify the potentially neurotic nature of his behaviour and he abruptly stopped near a tall, thin lieutenant who had been watching him since he rose.

"What are you looking at?" Solo challenged, his stomach choosing that particular moment to gurgle again.

"Nothing, friend," the other man replied evenly.

Frustratingly, there was no evidence of confrontation or ridicule in the man's tone. However, fortuitously for Solo he heard his name called. Saker stood by the door which led to the dining room, the intricately carved panels now shutting out the mumbled voices from within. Solo braced himself to attention, shot a sideways glance at the tall lieutenant, then marched over to the commander pulling his cap on as he went.

Saker appraised him coolly. "Well the room's still in one piece and I don't see any blood on the floor, so you must be behaving yourself," Saker said mirthlessly.

Solo allowed the taunt to bounce off him. He'd heard—and expected—far worse.

"Captain Aamalein no longer requires your services," Saker continued. "You're dismissed until oh-six hundred, which," Saker glanced at his wrist chrono, "gives you about five hours to try to stay out of trouble."

"Thank you, sir," Solo replied grudgingly.

"Don't thank me," Saker scoffed. "If it was up to me I'd make you stay until the formalities are over, and then I'd send you straight to your room where I could keep an eye on you. Don't even think for a moment that I _like_ you, Lieutenant Solo."

 _Never crossed my mind,_ Han thought.

Saker cocked his head slightly, as if he could read Solo's thoughts, then whispered curtly, "Dismissed."

Solo saluted the commander then disappeared from the anteroom as quickly as he could without looking as though he was eager to leave. Once safely away from the auspices of the formal dining areas, Solo's face broke into a relieved grin. He shook his head as if to clear the anteroom's staid and stuffy atmosphere from it. His stomach growled again and he decided the first thing to do was to get something to eat. He strode along the moving walkway that linked the relatively isolated formal dining rooms to the main area of the Facility, his eyes roaming over the taverns, tapcafes, restaurants and cantinas that lined the walkway.

When Han had first entered the anteroom, Triandra Facility had just commenced its night cycle, the time when most visitors chose to have a relaxing meal and perhaps attend a show at one of the entertainment clubs, go dancing in the zero-G dance domes, catch the latest holovid, or continue visiting the many displays and exhibitions which remained open at all hours. The night cycle had since passed, the vestiges of it present in the empty stimulant receptacles lining deserted tables in the refreshment establishments. It was now the very early hours of the morning cycle. The displays and exhibits were quieter and less crowded, most visitors taking advantage of the imposed rest break to sleep, freshen up and find more credits to spend. Sanitation droids moved around the Facility with efficient diligence, while other droids and beings commenced preparations for the first meal of the 'day'.

Han wanted to visit as many exhibits and displays as he could, knowing that this may be the one and only opportunity he would have to attend Triandra. However the first thing he needed to was eat.

A familiar aroma filtered through the air towards him, a distant memory of a different time. _Traggers._ Han's nose twitched and his mouth salivated at the thought of the unpretentious Corellian fast food he hadn't tasted for years. He increased his pace when he saw the tragger cart, a compact insulated trolley being pushed along on its repulsortlifts by an elderly gentleman.

Although Solo knew one wouldn't be enough to satisfy his appetite, traggers were a treat to be purchased and eaten individually. He bolted down the first tragger out of pure voracity, barely tasting it. He slowed down as best he could with the second tragger, attempting to savor the strong nutty flavor of the fried wedge of ground meat, the sizzling, sweet sauce dribbling down over the napkin and onto his hand. He was still sucking the sauce from his hand as he handed over the credits for another tragger.

With his mouth full but stomach not quite, Han was thinking about buying another tragger when a large, friendly hand fell onto his shoulder. He nearly choked on the mouthful of meat as he twisted around to see who had accosted him. The chuckling face of the SEC major greeted him.

"Well, if it isn't the knucklehead who tried to _mala-mala_ with my Wook," the major chortled. 'Knucklehead' was the old Corellian epithet ground troops reserved for pilots.

Alcohol laced the major's breath and there was a glistening in his eyes, but he wasn't drunk. He was also without the company of his Wookiee.

"I see you're living it up," the major said, nodding at the tragger vendor. "Typical knuck. You've got a veritable gourmet's selection of delicacies from across the galaxy—" he made a sweeping gesture with his hand "—and _you_ dive for the nearest tragger cart."

Han tried to smile congenially, chew and snap to attention at the same time, but the three disparate actions didn't gel, and he had the feeling he looked pretty foolish by the smirk that appeared across the major's face. The major folded his arms and studied the junior officer critically, eyes hesitating on the Bloodstripe adorning the young pilot's trousers, before returning to Solo's face.

"Come on. I'll buy you a drink," the major offered.

Although a drink sounded like a great idea, the last thing Han wanted was to drink with the sadist who had earlier displayed such viciousness to a Wookiee slave. There wasn't much he could do though to avoid his superior, so a drink with the major it would be.

Still chewing and thinking there was no easy way to get out of this, Han mumbled, "Thank you, sir."

The gregarious major directed Han to the nearest tavern as he swallowed the remains of his meal. As they entered the room, a dazzling human female in a low-cut slinky dress, skin the color of burnished copper, wrapped her arms around the neck of the major and smiled extravagantly at him. The major smiled back tightly and passed the woman on to Solo as they moved further into the tavern. Momentarily nonplused, the woman recovered quickly and pressed herself against Han's thigh, raked her long-nailed fingers through his hair while her other hand snaked down the small of his back and rested on his rump. Her ebony eyes sparkled at him and though his pulse raced and body tingled from her touch, he met her advances as casually and confidently as if this happened to him every day. The woman pouted, ran her tongue suggestively around her moist, orange lips, then suddenly pushed herself off him and left the tavern, the octaves of her deep, throaty laugh trailing after her. Given a different set of circumstances, Solo probably would have followed the woman to find out what other tricks she could do, but the major had already seated himself in a booth and was raising his eyebrows at Han impatiently. Reluctantly, obediently, Han took a seat opposite the major.

"My buy," the other man said as he beckoned the droid waiter over. "What'll it be?"

Still thinking wistfully about the bronzed woman, Solo said, "Corellian ale, thank you, sir."

"Ah, the 'tragger boy' stays within his comfort zone yet again!" the major crowed gleefully. "Loosen up, knuck. What'll it _really_ be?"

As much as he longed to try something different or stronger, Solo knew his alcohol tolerance would be hampered due to his recent lack of exposure to it. Spiced Corellian ale was safe and familiar. With his career potentially at stake and such little time until he reported for duty again—and he really _should_ try to get a few hours' sleep—known quantities were all he wanted to deal in.

"Corellian ale's fine, thank you, sir."

"My buy, my choice," the major told him. "Two Q'edillas," he ordered from the droid.

Han tried not to grimace at the sound of the potent beverage. One of his first experiences with alcohol had been with a misappropriated half-bottle of Q'edilla. Only two swigs had rendered him semi-conscious for a day and a half, and given him a headache which had thumped at his brain for nearly a week.

The droid deposited two beakers of clear liquid on the table and accepted the credits from the major.

"Montesuren," the major said bluntly, one hand out-stretched towards Solo as the other grabbed a beaker.

Han shook Montesuren's hand. "Solo."

The major leaned back, screwed his face into a frown. "What do they _really_ call you, knuck-Solo?"

"Slick."

Montesuren guffawed into his drink. "Well, you sure don't look too slick at the moment." He touched a corner of his own mouth and then pointed at Han's face. "Man outta the airlock."

Han brushed the back of his hand across his lips, glanced self-consciously at the tragger sauce he'd wiped away. Maybe _that_ was what the slinky woman had been trying to tell him.

Montesuren shifted in his seat as if he had something to say but didn't know quite how to bring the topic into conversation. He took a gulp from the beaker and leaned forward.

"First Wookiee you've seen, right?" Montesuren had the look of the proud owner of the latest model star yacht.

Han frowned. "Ah...yes, sir."

The pilot knew that he should have guessed the major would only be interested in bragging about his slave. Han really didn't want to discuss the Wookiee with anyone, let alone Montesuren. He'd already had enough trouble trying to forget the incident earlier that day. He covered his reluctance to follow this topic of conversation by sampling the Q'edilla. It burned sweet and spicy in his mouth and almost immediately relaxed his muscles, from the tightness across his forehead to the stiffness in his feet.

"Fine specimen, too," Montesuren continued proudly. "Not often you see a Wookiee in that sort of condition. For some reason they seem to fret and waste away in captivity."

 _That's what happens when you don't feed them and torture them with shock batons,_ Han thought grimly. He sipped the Q'edilla again lest he spoke the words, wriggled his toes in his boots.

"Not many Imperial officers have their own slave; even fewer would own a Wookiee."

" _You_ own him?" The incredulous question blurted from Han's lips almost on their own volition.

The major was right. Slaves were an expensive commodity owned only by the very rich and powerful. Han couldn't even hazard a guess at the market rate for a male adult Wookiee. Whatever it was, it was certainly beyond the salary of a SEC major.

Montesuren smiled secretively. "Well, not technically. On the database he's still listed as being indentured to the Corps. But in reality—" the major spread his hands in mock modesty "—in reality, he's mine."

Han found himself leaning forward with interest. He dutifully took the prompt fed to him. "How's that, sir?"

The major nodded, drank, and smiled again. "Let's just say it was a mixture of providence and indiscretion."

The allusion was beyond Han. He drank again, felt a wave of relaxation rush through him which threatened to pitch him over the edge into dizziness. He looked at the glass in his hand with admiration—this was great stuff!

Montesuren obligingly filled in more pieces to the puzzle. "Minor indiscretions which, taken as individual events, could be viewed as nothing more substantial than slight character defects, human frailties. However when combined, these indiscretions gathered weight and significance." His eyes became distant. "As providence would deem it, my CO saw it this way too. He thanked me for my honesty and diligence in bringing these matters to his attention, and granted me unlimited access to the services of a Wookiee." His gaze returned to Han and he smiled smugly. "And so here we are."

 _Here we are,_ Han mused. Montesuren had a received sentient life as pay-off for bribing his commanding officer. The major had made it sound like a cryptic game. But Han's curiosity was piqued; he wanted to know more.

"How long have you had the Wookiee, sir?"

"Three or four very profitable years." The major continued, following on from Han's questioning look. "What would you do if you had Wookiee slave, knuck-Solo?" He didn't expect a reply for he didn't stop long enough for Han to answer. "With a Wookiee it's simple enough to get them to do all your heavy work, but they aren't much good at the servant-type duties. They're not discrete or nimble enough. I doubt they've got the brains."

Han doubted the major's claims about the intelligence level of Wookiees. As far as he knew, Wookiees were a highly evolved, spiritual species. And from his brief encounter with Montesuren's Wookiee, he suspected this was true.

"Nah, I prefer to use the Wook how he was intended to be used. A lethal, animalistic expression of force." Montesuren smiled thinly. "And I exploit those skills to keep myself in the manner to which I have become accustomed." He drank from the glass, smiling smugly to himself.

Solo suspected he knew what the major was talking about. The major no doubt organised for the Wookiee to fight other lifeforms and then bet on the outcome of the battle. Han had never had a problem with gambling, apart from not being lucky enough with the sabacc cards. He'd been around gambling houses and casinos from an early age, and had even wagered on the outcome of the occasional fight, those formally organised and the more casual brawls which sprung up from time to time. But he'd never bet on a fight where one of the opponents fought against his will. Even to Han Solo, the practice somehow seemed amoral.

"Sir, may I ask why you've brought your Wookiee to Triandra?" Han had a sudden bad feeling he already knew the answer.

"Ask away, knuck-Solo."

Han respectfully humored his superior. "Sir, why have you brought your Wookiee here?"

Montesuren shrugged, waved a hand dismissively. "Errands. A few, shall we say, deliveries to a few of my associates. And..."

Montesuren let the word hang, and Han found himself silently repeating it. _And?_

"...thought I might put the Wook through The Pit." He licked his tongue across his lips. "I'm a big sports fan, you know."

Han nodded, not with agreement but with confirmation. In addition to the fine food, entertainment and exhibitions on offer at Triandra, The Pit catered for the more basic pleasures of some visitors. At The Pit, adversaries, both willing and unwilling, pitted against each other in tests of brute strength. Visitors could view the competitions for pure recreation, or speculate on the outcome for financial reward. Frequent attendees referred to it as 'sport', but it was hardly 'sporting'. Horrific injuries were commonplace and death to the losing party, though not mandatory, was encouraged.

"I had arranged for him to meet the _infamous_ Bladis, but the big slob has failed to show. And there's not much other competition around at the moment."

Han nodded again and drank the Q'edilla. Fortunate for the Wookiee. One less fight meant one more day he might see the end of. Solo shook his head slightly in an attempt to keep it clear. He fumbled for something to say, but his tongue felt thick and clumsy in his mouth.

"Does your Wookiee have a name?"

 _Stupid question!_ He regretted it as soon as it was asked. Why'd he ask that? As if a man who kept a slave was concerned with what name it chose to call itself.

Montesuren was not phased—anything to keep him talking about himself or his _possession_. "Uh, yeah. Translator droid told me once. 'Jibbikker', or somethin' like that. Not that it matters. He doesn't answer to it. The only thing he understands is the voice of the collar round his neck."

Montesuren had finished his drink and he toyed with the empty glass, looking expectantly at the lieutenant. Han hastily swallowed the remains of the Q'edilla, then immediately wished he hadn't. While Han casually held onto the edge of the table to steady himself, the major stared at him through slit eyes.

"You wanna closer look at the Wook, don't you knuck-Solo?"

Han wondered if the Q'edilla was causing him to hear things. "Sir?"

"It's written all over your face, kid."

Han glanced down into his empty glass.

"You wanna see if my Wookiee is a worthy competitor for The Pit. Don't you?"

Did the effects of the Q'edilla make him _look_ like that's what he wanted, or had it affected Montesuren's judgment? Or was the man just a boorish exhibitionist?

Montesuren leaned towards Han and winked. "Tell you what. After I have another drink, I'll take you down to The Pit. Let you see my Wook again. Let you pick up from where you left your dancing lessons with him." He laughed at his own joke.

Han wasn't too sure he really wanted to go to The Pit. He knew he definitely wanted to get as far away from Major Montesuren as he could. But a part of him thrilled at the opportunity to see the Wookiee again. Or was that the Q'edilla?

"Uh, thank you, sir but..."

"Not a problem," Montesuren said magnanimously. He waved the droid waiter across and ordered another two Q'edillas. "I believe it's your buy, knuck-Solo."


	7. Chapter 7

**LIFE DEBT**

by CorellianBlue

(first published 1998, updated 2015)

 _Part VII_

One more drink became two, then another and another, until Han thought he was never going to see the Wookiee or get away from Montesuren. And the powerful alcohol wasn't helping. He felt alternatively light-headed and relaxed, then numb and confused, and he'd only had five drinks. The tavern had also developed the annoying habit of blurring around the edges and slipping out of focus. Montesuren wasn't fairing any better, but then he no doubt had been drinking longer than his junior.

Just as Lieutenant Solo was considering whether laying his head down on the table would breach the Imperial Code of Conduct, Montesuren suddenly pulled him to his feet and they headed off to The Pit. Montesuren talked incessantly to him as they walked along, though his speech was significantly slower following the effects of the Q'edilla. Han found it difficult to concentrate on what Montesuren was saying and maintain a straight line on the moving walkway at the same time, so he gave up listening and applied his efforts to walking and nodding his head at what he hoped were appropriate times.

Han's head started to clear as they entered the area of the Facility innocuously labeled the _Fun and Games Strip_. They passed through a quiet arcade lined with banks of simple coin-operated games of skill and chance, before rejoining the walkway as it weaved its way past a lively casino. Han looked back over his shoulder longingly at the well-dressed patrons slipping through the casino's mirrored doorway, laughing and chatting. He could almost hear the sabacc cards calling to him and the palms of his hands started itching.

"Here we are," Montesuren crowed, indicating the unlit sign hanging above an uninviting black door.

The major poked an access card into the key lock and led Solo inside. The pilot stumbled up a flight of blood-red carpeted stairs and stopped next to Montesuren on a landing that looked out into the amphitheatre. A cold draft blew across Han's face and he suppressed a shiver. The circular auditorium was dark and empty, only the constant standby hum from the shield generator piercing the silence. Han supposed the shield generator was used to restrict competitors to the small square of stage nestled in the centre of The Pit.

Solo followed Montesuren down the stairs into the centre of the arena, past the rows of stepped seating, then around the edge of the stage and out through the back to the competitors' area. The competitors' area was an amalgamation of changing facilities, ablutions, cells, cages, stasis modules and basic medical bays. The unmistakable odours of blood, sweat and fear tainted the humid atmosphere.

They wandered down the detention area corridor like simple tourists. Montesuren pointed out the long-muzzled, mammalian quadrupeds huddled together in the corner of a cage. One of the creatures had a badly mauled hind leg requiring treatment and it waged its whip-like tail submissively.

"I was told they'd be getting in some Nek battle dogs," Montesuren said disappointedly, "but instead they offered me these little guys. The Wook would take 'em out without raising a sweat. Where's the sport in that?"

In the neighboring cell a wide-eyed bird nearly as tall as Han sat perched on the rim of its food tray, its large, hooked talons curved over the remains of a small, furry animal. The bird blinked its heavy lidded eyes at the men as they walked past. The next five cells were empty, save for a coagulated pool of blood on the floor of one of them. Then they came to the cell where the Wookiee was caged.

The Wookiee sat on his thick haunches near the front of the cell, back pressed up against the wall, blue eyes looking out through the invisible shield preventing his escape. His eyes flickered up briefly as Solo and Montesuren approached, then his gaze returned out beyond them. The sound of the Wookiee's breathing was deep and regular, seemingly drowning out all other noise.

Han's pulse increased and his breath came in shallow gasps from his lungs. Even crouched below him, the Wookiee was enormous. Physically, he was as big and powerful as Han remembered, but there was something else about the Wookiee that was unnerving, something that gave Han the creeps. The shaggy humanoid exuded a dangerous, ethereal presence. The stench from his matted coat was just as potent. Han's stomach turned and he folded his arms across his chest to settle himself.

"He's in his ignorant mood," Montesuren explained sarcastically, as if truculent child. "When he gets like this, sometimes even the collar doesn't work. He'd prefer to knock himself unconscious rather do what I tell him to do." The major retrieved the remote control for the slavers collar from a pocket. "Watch."

Montesuren adjusted the settings on the remote and a short, sharp burst of energy zapped into the Wookiee's neck. "Hey, Wook."

The Wookiee flinched but remained resolutely staring ahead. Han's stomach clenched, his eyes desperately searching for something else to look at inside the cell while not turning his head aside. The distinct smell of singed Wookiee hair burned in his nostrils.

A grim sneer twisted Montesuren's face and he increased the power. "Ignorant bastard."

He activated the collar again, resulting in the same disinterested response from his slave. Staring at the wall, Han cringed. A sharp ache jabbed at his temple. _I shouldn't have come,_ he thought. _He's doing this for my benefit. Showing off._

"H-how many fights has he won?" Han managed to stammer out, turning to look at the major as another spurt from the collar was released.

Ceasing the harassment, Montesuren tapped the remote thoughtfully against his cheek and grinned. "Close to 250. He's a ball of fire when he gets going. You should see him."

"I can imagine," Han agreed. If he kept the major talking, he might save the Wookiee from further harm. "Wookiees have quite a reputation."

"And well-deserved, too," the major boasted. "At least he's earned it."

Han looked back at the Wookiee, not noticing that the major was staring at the Bloodstripe on the younger man's trousers, or that the older man's eyes had hardened.

"Some guys're just all glitz and glitter," the major muttered.

Watching the Wookiee intently, Han moved closer to the cell's shield wall, being careful not to stray too close in case he brushed against it and was rewarded with a stunning dose of energy. He nodded absently as Montesuren recalled the Wookiee's past triumphs, not really listening as he studied the shaggy behemoth at his feet. Although Han was glad he had the opportunity to see the Wookiee again, he wasn't comfortable with the situation. But he felt compelled to stay there and look at the Wookiee, as if his boots were glued to the floor, as if this was a dream. His head swirled. The sound of the Wookiee's breathing was hypnotic, and it was sometime before Han realised the major had finished talking and was staring at him, fingers brushing across the controls on the remote. Han's gaze tracked from the remote up into the major's cold eyes.

"So….so how does he fight?" Han asked.

"Like a Wookiee," Montesuren replied bluntly. "This bothers you, doesn't it, Solo?"

"No, sir." His response was a little too quick and defensive to sound convincing. The last thing Han wanted was the major telling Captain Aamalein the junior officer couldn't cope with watching a Wookiee being brutalised. That would be yet another black mark against his name.

"Sure it does," Montesuren told him, nodding.

Trying to think of anything which might get him out of this, Han smiled weakly.

"It bothers you that I have something you don't." Montesuren smiled triumphantly. "Something that you want. Right?"

 _What?_ Han rubbed at the ache in his temples. _This guy is off his tracks._

Montesuren's head was bobbing vigorously and he moved towards Han. "Can't stand it, hey, knuck?"

"No, sir," he answered, then realising his response could be misconstrued, corrected himself. "I mean, yes, sir."

Montesuren's victorious gleam crumpled into a confused frown.

Han grimaced and struggled to come up with a coherent explanation. "Sir, I mean, no, it doesn't bother me at all that you own a Wookiee." Even to Han, the answer sounded lame, especially after he added a redundant, "Sir." But then he wondered even if he _had_ made sense, the major may not have been sober or sane enough to comprehend.

Hands hitched on hips, Major Montesuren glared at him sceptically. A patina of alcohol-induced disdain tainted the elder man's sharp features. He prodded a thick finger into the young pilot's chest. Han edged away, wary of the cell's energy shield.

"Just keep tellin' yourself that, knuck." Montesuren's breath was rancid. "One day, you might believe it."

At this close proximity to each other, Han realised he was slightly taller than the major, and was looking down into his eyes. The major must have noticed as well. A change passed over his face and he pushed at Han once more before sauntering back casually to his original position where the height difference wasn't so obvious.

The spot on his chest where Montesuren had touched him burned and Han rubbed at it, trying to mask the fury boiling within. _Gotta get away. Before I rip this idiot's throat out._

Montesuren's demeanour changed again and he favoured Han with a fond smile.

"I like you, Solo," he admitted. "You're none too smart, but you're likable enough. For a pilot."

Staring silently at Montesuren, Han considered whether he should call off his pretense and just walk away. It was possible that the major would be unable to recall this meeting and would not be able to report back to Captain Aamalein. However no matter which way Solo looked at it, staying here could only mean more trouble.

"Here." Montesuren suddenly tossed the remote at Han and he caught it reflexively. "Look after this for me. I need to take a leak."

Montesuren shuffled down the corridor towards the ablutions, leaving Han staring at the remote in his hand. His immediate instinct was to crush the control under the heel of his boot. But he quickly realised the stupidity of such an action and instead tucked it against his body beneath folded arms. His face was flushed and he could feel the pulse throbbing in his head. _The Q'edilla,_ he told himself. _That's all._

Solo looked down at the Wookiee and wondered how much of the confrontation the beast had understood. Han wasn't too certain he understood it himself.

Standing above the Wookiee with his arms crossed, Solo became aware that the pose he struck spoke of Imperial arrogance. Feeling weary and washed out, he attempted squatting in a similar fashion to the Wookiee, but his muscles quivered and he lowered himself to the ground, the air escaping from his lungs as he groaned softly. He slid the remote across the floor away from him. Immediately feeling better, steadier, he was able to look into the Wookiee's brooding face. The Wookiee looked through Han and across the corridor to the other wall as if the young human was as insubstantial as the shield wall.

Han wondered if he should he say something. _How do you talk to a Wookiee anyway?_ Having been a captive for at least four years, Han assumed it would understand a word or two of Basic.

"How's it going, Jibbikker?" he asked quietly. Solo hoped Montesuren was throwing up in the heads and couldn't hear him talking to the slave.

The Wookiee's gaze was distant, trance like, and Han imagined he was thinking of other times and places. Home. Isn't that what slaves thought of? Wasn't that the only thing keeping them going? The thought that eventually they'd return there.

The Wookiee's eyes remained locked ahead, unblinking. Without thinking, Han verbalised his own thoughts.

"What do you see, fella?"

No response.

"Home?"

Han licked dry lips, tried again.

"Kashyyyk?"

Han was momentarily startled as the blue-eyed gaze focused on him. The Wookiee's head tilted to one side and he stared curiously at Han. The black, wet nose twitched and he lowed softly, an inquiring growl.

"Kashyyyk," Han repeated, pronouncing the word as elegantly as a non-Wookiee could.

The Wookiee mumbled a similar word, _["Kashyyyk,"]_ , then closed his eyes in anguish.

The hardness clenching Han's stomach cracked. He swallowed hard, rubbed a hand across his pale face, wanted to apologise for causing the creature pain.

"Aahh, blast it…." The ache pounded in his head again. "Jibbikker, I—"

The unexpected sound of a genuine Wookiee chuckle eased Solo's tension. The Wookiee was amused about something Han had said, or perhaps the way he was behaving. Frowning, Han listened as the Wookiee muttered and gestured at him, occasionally shaking his shaggy head with emotions that were easily recognisable as amusement and displeasure. Having grown up in a system that was home to Drall, Selonians and humans, Han had a well-developed ear for alien languages and he found he could distinguish syllables and possible meaning from the growls. When the Wookiee briefly repeated himself, using the same tone, pitch and sounds but slowly, as if trying to explain something to him, Han thought he understood what the Wookiee was saying.

"Jibbikker," Han said. "It's not your name, is it?"

The Wookiee shook his head, _No_. The Wookiee growled again, spoke the same 'words' he'd used before. Han briefly attempted again to pick up the pronunciation of the words he could almost guarantee would be the Wookiee's name, but his pulse thudded at the base of his skull, knocking and reverberating through his ears.

 _This is going to be some headache when it hits,_ he thought. He needed to rest. Needed to get back to his room before the hammering in his brain wiped him out. The last thing he needed was to be sitting on the floor, with a Wookiee slave, trying to decipher its name. Talking to Wookiees in the middle of the night was madness. Besides, Montesuren had failed to return from the ablutions. Now was the perfect time to escape.

Groaning with effort, Han slowly stood. He did not notice the fleeting look of disappointment that fell across the Wookiee's face.

In spite of his preoccupation with cursing Montesuren, it occurred to Solo to glance down apologetically at the Wookiee.

"Sorry, fella. Love to stay and chat but I think I need to lie down right now."

The Wookiee stared ahead, ignoring the young Imperial. Slighted at the sudden inattentiveness, and from somewhere within a part of his brain which wasn't befuddled with Q'edilla and exhaustion, Han latched onto a peace token to offer the Wookiee.

"Hey, Ch-Choobeck, Choobakk..." He half-smiled as mind and tongue struggled to reach synergy. "Ahhh, Chewie." That was the best he could do. "Hey, Chewie, I'll see ya later."

Solo thought he caught a spark of recognition from the blue Wookiee eyes before he turned to leave. _Chewie,_ Han said to himself. _Yeah…Chewie._

Runninghis hands along the wall like a blind man, the lieutenant stumbled down the corridor, trying to find his way out of the cells.

 _I wonder where my cabin is…?_


	8. Chapter 8

**LIFE DEBT**

by CorellianBlue

(first published 1998, updated 2015)

 _Part VIII_

Somehow Han managed to get through the day without throwing up or falling asleep. He liked to imagine Captain Aamalein had guessed at his nocturnal activities and had been suitably impressed at his fortitude and staying power. It made him feel better, if only slightly.

Han sat in a booth in an open cafe, one hand pressed against his forehead as he rubbed his throbbing temples with thumb and forefinger, contemplating why, with all the medical technology available throughout the galaxy, someone was yet to come up with a cure for the common hangover.

His other hand clutched a mug of aromatic, black kavit, the strongest thing, he vowed, he'd drink today. He sipped at the steaming, bitter liquid as he scrolled through the booth's built-in tourist guide. The kavit's restorative properties settled his queasy stomach and dispersed the sleep from his mind. Nothing beat a mug of pitch black kavit for breaking through the lethargy imposed by too much alcohol and lack of sleep. Han wished he'd had a kavit earlier; it might have made the day go quicker. Even under the best of circumstances, administrative duties would have put him to sleep, but they'd been doubly tiresome today.

Still, he'd survived and now had 12 hours to himself. He figured he only needed about four hours sleep to help recover from the previous night's antics with that crazy SEC major—well, he really needed more, but he'd survived on less in the past and as this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, he wanted to allocate as much time possible to discovering what Triandra had to offer.

Because he now lacked time, Solo had been forced to devise an itinerary to ensure he saw everything he wanted to see. Every good military mission required planning prior to action, and so he'd decided to consult a computerised tourist guide. Fortunately, most cafes had screens built into their booths and tables so tourists could browse and plan as they ate. After 15 minutes of quality research, Han soon had a neat pile of exhibit tokens which the terminal had spat out to him. The tokens were nothing more than reminders of where the exhibit was located, though some offered discounted entry and two-for-the-price-one offers.

High pitched giggles from a group of human females seated in a booth behind him distracted him from his reading. Annoyed, Solo glanced up and gave them his best glare. The young women gasped, whispered and giggled again as he stared at them. He guessed they were a one or two years younger than himself, still in their late teens, immaculately dressed in clothes that seemed too old for them, breasts peeking over the top of plunging necklines, hemlines riding high, long hair arranged in the latest styles, and faces painted with too much makeup. Oblivious to his aggravation, the young women's faces shined with naiveté and delight at the scant attention he afforded them.

 _Rich girls on their first holiday away from the parents,_ Solo thought.

While the idea of female companionship hadn't occurred to him before, and didn't really appeal to him at this particular moment, the possibility of a one-off tryst might round this trip out nicely. He had a history of being found visually attractive by some female humans and near-humans, and he was confident with women around his age. His main problem was keeping women interested once they found out what he was really like. Perhaps that's what had been different between him and Ascher. She'd known what he was like before they had become intimately involved. There had be no need for pretense, facades or games. They were colleagues first, then friends, then lovers. The progression had seem natural.

 _Ascher._

A dull ache pulsed in his head. He wished he hadn't thought about her. It had been weeks since she'd last crossed his mind, and only then because someone had asked him if he'd known of her promotion. Gratefully, she'd met his lack of response to her message with equal silence. Probably be the last he heard from her too. That was about the only downfall with sex—it ruined good friendships.

Solo looked down at the exhibit tokens stacked on the table. He really wanted to view all these displays, but at the same time there was a booth full of nubile young women who were eager to meet him and inexperienced enough not to be wary. There were effectively three days left to this conference, and as they were scheduled to depart late on the third day he figured there was ample time to coax one of the girls to spend more time with him.

He glanced over his shoulder as two of the girls conferred with each other, and discretely pointed in his direction. There was no one behind so they had to be talking about him. His roguish grin and wink made their rouged cheeks redden further. _This should be easy._

Eyeing them over the rim of his mug, he considered each of the girls at his leisure, revelling in his arrogance. As a group they had appeared unremarkable, however when viewed individually each had some feature which appealed to him. Slender fingers, elegant neck, full lips, dark eyelashes—he wished he had more time. But he decided he shouldn't be greedy. Just as a taste of Q'edilla had washed him out after virtual abstinence for the last year, he figured the same thing might apply to women.

Unlike her friends, the girl with short, bobbed hair averted her eyes when he appraised her. Her coyness and composure were in stark contrast to the other girls which, in itself, was attractive. She was the one to approach. Something which posed a bit of a challenge to him. But he had one other important matter to attend to before he used the old Solo charm on her.

Han collected his cap, the exhibit tokens, downed the cold remains of the kavit, and looked around for the cafe's heads. The Q'edilla had forced his kidneys into overdrive. He found the ablutions out the back near the kitchen.

When he returned, the girls had vacated their booth and were nowhere to be seen. Solo spied the dwarfish waiter who had taken his order at a nearby table. As the green-tinged waiter spoke little Basic, he was having trouble taking the order from the blue-furred Bothan couple.

"Hey, buddy. You see where those girls went?"

The waiter either ignored Solo or hadn't heard him for he continued concentrating on his order pad and scratching his ear furiously.

"Hey, buddy." Solo shook the little man by the shoulder.

The waiter indignantly pushed away Solo's hand without looking, then turned to see who had interrupted him. Lieutenant Solo took advantage of the shock—then fear—that rushed across the waiter's face at the sight of an Imperial uniform. Han pulled his cap on, squared his shoulders and rested his hand on the butt of his blaster. The Bothan customer tried unsuccessfully to hide his displeasure and his partner studiously looked elsewhere.

"Oh, ssssir, pleasssse ek-hoosssse me," the waiter said in his sing-song voice that stressed the sibilants. "I-I-I did not mean off-ensssse."

The little man padded at Solo's tunic sleeve as if brushing away his ill-timed gesture. The pilot pulled his arm away from the waiter's ministrations.

"Well next time pay attention to what you do," Solo cautioned.

"Yessssssssir, yessssssssir."

The waiter's green cheeks darkened with apprehension as he backed up against the table, knocking over the condiments caddie. The female Bothan quickly tidied up the mess of sauces and spices. The waiter was visibly trembling and his shaking hands dropped the order pad. Solo glanced down at the pad, then up at the waiter. The waiter's eyes followed the lieutenant's gaze, but he seemed too terrified to move.

Solo took his hand off his blaster. "Relax. I just want to know where those girls went."

The waiter's jaw shifted slackly but his eyes remained fixed on Solo.

"The girls. They were sitting at that booth. Just a moment ago."

"Oh? Oh? Oh?" The waiter's eyes lit up and he raised a finger. "Oh! The young females!"

Han nodded. "Yeah."

"They left."

The waiter cringed as Solo's face hardened.

"I _know_ they left, you idiot. Which way did they go?"

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" The waiter's entire face flushed dark green and he backed further away almost into the lap of the male Bothan.

"Lieutenant, please." The Bothan placed a reassuring hand on the waiter's shoulder and looked up at Solo. Disrespect glimmered in the Bothan's eyes and his tone was firm. "The young humans who were sitting at the booth only recently departed." He shushed his partner's hesitant interruption. "I overheard them discussing the next times for the fashion parades. Perhaps you could try looking for them there." He smiled politely, if insincerely.

Solo met the Bothan's audacity with a wry grin, snatched up the waiter's order pad and placed it on the table.

"Thank you," he said tersely as he turned and left.

"Y-y-you are mosssst welcome, ssssir," the waiter called after him.

Well, that idea was blown. Han had no idea where the fashion exhibitions were located and he wasn't too keen on wasting valuable time tracking down the girls on the chance he _might_ be able to talk one of them into leaving her friends to spend some quality time with him. Besides, he decided, he had more important things to do.

Solo attacked the displays and exhibits with the same single-mindedness and enthusiasm he applied to his flying duties. His first stop was an exhibition of the latest model swoops and speeder bikes. From the glitzy, underpowered models some males might use to impress females, to the military-version speeder bikes—there was something for everyone, or at least something for anyone who appreciated the sleek lines of swoops and bikes.

Solo lingered around the displays featuring souped-up swoops favoured by professional racers which were little more than a seat with an engine bolted to it, reminiscing about the brief time he'd spent as a pro-swoop racer.

Solo continued on, strolling through exhibitions for side arms, personal atmospheric aircraft, star yachts, survival equipment and communication devices. Feeling buoyant and relaxed, but craving the assets he'd viewed he even wandered into an exhibition for droids on a whim and would have stayed longer if the incessant prattling of the C-PO models had driven him out again.

By the time he glanced at his wrist chrono and realised the station's night cycle was nearly over, Han found himself in the heart of the _Fun and Games Strip_. He loitered on the outskirts of the casino he had passed by the previous night, wistfully watching patrons come and go. Commander Saker had pointedly forbidden Han from gambling or even entering a casino. Reluctantly, Lieutenant Solo had to agree with the commander's ruling; it wouldn't _look_ right for one of the Emperor's finest to be seen gambling, no matter what sort of establishment it was.

 _No point in torturing yourself,_ Han thought. He suddenly turned towards the arena Montesuren had led him to —The Pit. He wondered if the major had found a match for the Wookiee, and if he had how the Wookiee had faired.

An ugly, burly humanoid ushered a few straggling patrons out the doors as Han approached, muttering words of appreciation to his departing guests. He eyed Solo suspiciously and studied the Imperial uniform.

"We're closed," the humanoid mumbled, his arms folding across his chest. The large sign above the door flickered off to emphasise the claim.

"Major Montesuren instructed me to wait for him in the competitors' area," Solo explained.

The ugly man snorted through large nostrils and sucked phlegm into the back of his throat as he growled, "He's not here."

Solo stared uncompromisingly at the larger man. "That's why he _told_ me to _wait_ for him," he slowly explained in a condescending tone.

The look on the man's face told Solo that if it wasn't for the uniform he would have been a crumpled mess on the floor.

"I'll let you in," he said grudgingly.

Solo followed the man around to a side door that led directly into the competitors' area without having to traverse the amphitheatre. Han noted, with some relief, that there were no additional cell mates in the cages he passed. At least the Wookiee didn't have to contend with the threatened Nek battle dogs, or worse.

He found the Wookiee in the same position he had left him, hunched up at the front of the cell, staring trancelike at the opposite wall. The Wookiee did not acknowledge his presence.

Han stood there for a moment, looking down at the Wookiee, rubbing the back of his neck. Had he dreamed last night? He _did_ have a conversation with the Wookiee, didn't he? He sat on the cold, hard floor and spoke with a Wookiee.

"Hey, Chewie." Han's voice echoed down the corridor and he stood there slightly perplexed. He had nothing else to say.

The Wookiee—Chewie—slowly turned his head towards the young pilot. Han started when he saw the matted hair on the side of the Wookiee's head, sticky and encrusted with blood from a deep gash running from temple to jaw. His breath caught in his throat. Montesuren did this.

"Bastard," he whispered. "Chu'ellan bastard." His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Chewie chuckled mirthlessly as he casually stood to his full height, towering over the young Imperial pilot. He growled at Han with a distinct inflection of sarcasm. Han guessed, more than understood, what the Wookiee had said.

"'What am I gonna do about it?'Is that what you said?" Anger tinged Solo's voice. It was a pretty stupid question from a supposedly intelligent being.

Chewie gingerly touched the wound and nodded.

"What would you _like_ me to do?!" Han defensively crossed his arms across his chest. "Huh? What _exactly_ would you like me to do?"

The Wookiee's mocking laugh hit him in the stomach as hard as any punch.

"Excuse the hell out of me for bothering to care—" He tried to strangle the words before they came out but the Wookiee had already heard his admission.

Han stared at his boots, breathing heavily in irritated bursts through his nose. Chewie shuffled across the cell to a metal bench and sat down. He elaborately opened his arms wide and barked one word at Han.

 _Nothing,_ Han said to himself. _He expects me to do nothing. And that's about sums up all that I can do._

He scrunched his hand through his hair and glanced over at the Wookiee. Blood had started to seep through Chewie's head wound again.

"What happened?" Han asked quietly.

Chewie's answer and hand gesture were dismissive: _Don't worry, it doesn't matter._

"Of course it matters." Han's tone was as sharp as the dark glint in his eyes. "You think I enjoy this? You think I condone his actions?"

The Wookiee ignored him.

"Well…I don't." His words sounded pathetic. His headache had returned and a dull pain shifted in his chest. He wished he had never come to see the damn Wookiee again. "Stubborn bastard," he mumbled.

Chewie wiped a shaggy paw at the blood flowing into his eyes. Han considered fetching a medpac from the medical bay and attending to the wound, but he knew it would be foolish to handle the Wookiee without having use of the remote for the slavers collar. He studied the panel which controlled the cell's shield and decided even if he wanted to help the Wookiee, he doubted he could crack the access code.

The Wookiee cocked his head as if listening, sniffed the air. Following the cue, Han unsuccessfully strained his own hearing. Chewie suddenly flinched as energy zapped from the collar into his neck. He muttered Wookiee curses under his breath. Not long after, Han heard boot steps approaching from down the corridor. Montesuren was coming. The tightness in Han's chest shifted up into his shoulders and neck, and a chill crept through his hairline. He had no excuse for being with the Wookiee.

"You awake, Wook?" the major bellowed.

Torn between anxiety and hatred, Han grimaced at Chewie, and braced himself to attention in the hope of catching the major off guard—using attack as the best form of defense. As Montesuren came into view, Han saluted.

"Good evening, sir," he barked out. _Chue'llan pask'aghlla._

Montesuren checked mid-stride, a frown creasing his brow, but he continued forward.

"Well, if it isn't, knuck-Solo," he murmured as he stopped in front of Han, the welcoming intonation in his voice at odds with his countenance. "What happened to you last night? Skipped out on me."

Han tried his best not to grind his teeth. He knew he should have been more afraid than he was, but he decided he was in no mood for playing Montesuren's games. Not after the major had violently attacked the Wookiee again.

"I wasn't feeling too well, sir," he honestly explained.

A sarcastic smile lurched across the major's face. "Oh, poor knuck wasn't feeling well." The smile dropped. "I don't recall giving you permission to leave."

The young pilot returned the major's stare evenly. "I was off-duty. I wasn't aware, sir, that I needed your permission to leave."

The knife-edge sharpness in Montesuren's eyes became more honed. "I can't believe you said that, Solo."

Neither could Han. It was an axiom of the Imperial Code of Conduct: a soldier is always on duty. By rights Han should have requested permission before excusing himself for the night. He doubted it would have worked with Montesuren, but he should have tried. At the very least he shouldn't voice his opinion on the matter.

Montesuren poised a hand on a hip. "Do you wish to reconsider what you just said?"

Out the corner of his eye, Han saw Chewie intently watching the exchange.

The young pilot deliberated for a while before responding, "No, sir."

Shaking his head in slow amazement, Montesuren told him, "You're more stupid than I originally thought."

"Yes, sir," Han agreed simply.

The major's incredulity surged into boiling anger. "Who the hell do you think you are, Lieutenant?" The way he said the title highlighted the rank difference between them. "Nothing more than an over-decorated—" He gestured roughly at the Corellian Bloodstripe. "—Navy brat who's gotten all jall'd up just because a superior bought him a few drinks." The major half-circled him, critically looking him up and down. "I've dealt with smart asses like you before, Solo. And you Navy pilots are the worse. A 'protected' species. Floating around on a different level to rest of us mere mortals. Think your shit doesn't stink and you know it _all_. Right?"

 _Yeah,_ Han thought smugly. _Right._

Montesuren glared at him, staring deep into the insolent hazel eyes. "You think you're better than me, don't you?"

Forcibly biting the inside of his mouth to repress a response, Han regarded his superior blankly.

Montesuren nodded to himself. "I didn't think you'd have the guts to answer that one. And just as well. You don't know who you're messing with, Lieutenant. I can have you broken back to ensign so fast you won't know what's hit you!" With a twitch of a grin, the anger transformed into cold intimidation. "Or maybe I'll just report this incident to your captain, and let him deal with you. Maybe a month cleaning the heads with the sanit droids will correct your attitude problem." Montesuren cocked an eyebrow, crossed his arms and waited. "What do you say, Solo?"

Despite the vacant expression on his face, Han knew his eyes betrayed most of what he thought and felt. He realised he had stepped over the line again, but for no real advantage. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't help Chewie. There was no way of stopping the major from torturing the Wookiee.

Han also reasoned that nothing could be gained from insubordination, no matter how good he was at it. Being insubordinate could threaten his wings. That's what he had to keep in mind: his wings. Tarroway would not take kindly to any further errant behavior from Lieutenant Solo, even if it was only displayed towards a SEC major. Would it hurt him so much to just swallow his hate and his pride and let this pask'aghlla walk all over him? Particularly if it meant keeping his wings?

"Excuse me, sir," Han said dryly. "I have been out of line. I apologise for my behavior. I was in error. I should have sought your leave prior to departing last night."

His voice was flat, crisp, without inflection or modulation. Montesuren was unable to detect deceit or sarcasm. He appeared satisfied with the apology and subjugation the young pilot displayed.

"So what are you doing here?" Montesuren asked. "Did you come to see me, or the Wookiee?"

Han risked a glance at Chewie. Still seated on the bench, the Wookiee rolled his eyes and shook his head wearily. Han didn't really know _why_ he was there, except it wasn't to see the major. But he couldn't tell him that.

"I don't know, sir." It was probably the truth.

Nodding his head in agreement, Montesuren told him, "I can believe that." He looked into the cell at the Wookiee, but addressed Han. "You've wasted enough of my time, Solo," he growled, tapping the remote impatiently in his palm. "Get the hell out of here."

Without knowing why, Han hesitated. Montesuren's head whipped around, his face contorted with fury.

"Did you hear me, Lieutenant?"

Han couldn't—didn't want to leave. Maybe if he stayed, there was a chance to protect the Wookiee from more abuse. He struggled for an idea. _Think, damn it._

"Can I buy you a drink, sir?"

"Leave." The tendons in Montesuren's neck stretched tautly. "Are you disobeying an order, Lieutenant?"

Han had pushed his luck as far as he dared. He couldn't afford a further reprimand. Not if he wanted to keep his wings.

"No, sir."

He snapped out a curt salute and retreated down the corridor, hands and jaw clenching and unclenching, expecting to hear the howls of the Wookiee at any moment.

Incensed at his own inaction, Solo rammed the toe of his boot into The Pit's rear access door after it closed behind him. The polished leather of his boot scuffed and tore, so he kicked the door again.

He hated feeling like this, feeling powerless, insignificant. He'd vowed a long time ago no one would ever make him feel that way again.

A military career had appeared to be the ideal way for him to achieve the strength Han so desperately craved. But he was starting to think it was all just display, an illusion. The soldiers of the Empire weren't any more powerful or capable than other life forms. They were men. Ordinary men. Trapped and ineffectual. Bound by rules, regulations and their own frailties. Imperial soldiers were devoted to a hegemony that thrived on a doctrine of fear, loathing and suffering. The more Han became entrenched in that system, the weaker he became in reality. He had never felt more powerless in his whole life than he had during the last few months. Except perhaps once, and that memory was distant and hazy, as if it had happened to someone else.

With unusual self-control, Han stopped himself from punching the wall by locking his arms across his stomach and clasping his elbows. He strode down the walkway, anxious to put some distance between himself and the cause of his anger. He tried the deep breathing exercises Ascher had unsuccessfully suggested he use whenever he got so furious he couldn't see straight, but he nearly hyperventilated.

Consumed with anger and frustration, he pushed his way past faceless, shapeless beings, ignorant of their indignant shouts of surprise.

He had no idea where he was going.


	9. Chapter 9

**LIFE DEBT**

by CorellianBlue

(first published 1998, updated 2015)

 _Part IX_

In a detached way, Lieutenant Solo thought the night was never going to end.

He was standing at ease inside Captain Aamalein's suite—as he had for the last hour—awaiting final instructions before he could be dismissed for the night. He had positioned himself on the edge where the tiled lobby finished and the plush carpeting began, providing his seniors with the confidentiality they desired while remaining close at hand if required.

He didn't mind he'd been waiting, arms clasped firmly behind a straight back, with no indication from his superiors how much longer they would be, or even acknowledgment of his presence. It wasn't his job to be concerned with such things. His duty was to be of service to his superiors.

The lieutenant had taken the same attitude with the formal reception Aamalein and Saker had just attended. The reception had not been much more than a cocktail party staged by the owners of the Triandra Facility for conference attendees, with special invited guests made up of merchants, traders, industrialists and community leaders from around the Corellian Sector.

The young pilot had stayed within eye contact of Captain Aamalein and Commander Saker at all times. As directed, he had not spoken with any of the guests or other aides, no had he taken a seat, yawned or looked bored. He had instead focused on ensuring refreshments were quickly dispatched to the captain and commander. It had been a relatively easy task, though long enough that he may not have succeeded if he had not had a serious attitude re-adjustment.

A discernible change had passed over Solo, like a cold wind. He appeared calmer, more solemn, almost subdued. The insolent gleam in his eyes had been replaced with a more disciplined, dispassionate haze, and he spoke in short sentences only when spoken to.

Solo had decided that he asked too many questions, thought too much about things—a claim that seemed at odds with who he was. _Han Solo thinks too much._ It was almost a joke.

Not surprisingly, Solo had found it much easier to get through the previous two days and nights by numbly accepting what happened around him. Unemotional acceptance kept him out of trouble, stopped his mind from swirling with doubts and questions, and consequently his superiors had been pleased with this change. Solo had also found that the constriction in his chest and throat had disappeared.

The night was nearly over. There was only one more day left of the conference. In less than 30 hours they would depart Triandra and Lieutenant Solo would be flying back to his old job. Tarroway would have to take him back as a pilot; after all, he had performed as commanded. And as a squadron pilot he didn't have to consider what was 'right'. He only had to fly.

"Lieutenant Solo."

Solo came to attention as Captain Aamalein beckoned him over. Normally Solo would have switched off after such a long wait, but he had been anticipating this moment so it hadn't caught him unaware.

He marched the short distance to the conform lounges and halted.

"Yes, sir?"

"Prior to commencement of proceedings tomorrow, I want you to have copies of the dissertation I presented available for my colleagues. I also want you to brief me on any developments that have occurred back on the _Defender_ since we departed, and have the ship's XO forward any urgent communications that require my attention." Aamalein spoke to him without looking up, still absorbed in his datapad and nodding at Saker's murmurings. "You'll also need to request a copy of the latest intelligence summary. I'll go over everything on the flight back to the ship."

"Yes, sir."

Lieutenant Solo remained fast as Aamalein and Saker went through the agenda for the next day. Saker chuckled appreciatively at an observation Aamalein made about the reaction of some attendees to his controversial opinions.

Solo had come to respect his captain during this sojourn. Aamalein was strongly admired by his peers and revered by subordinates, both as a warrior and as a leader. Here at the conference, Solo had come to appreciate the man as an astute politician who was not afraid to express his opinions, and as a highly capable and persuasive speaker. The lieutenant was glad he fought on the same side as Aamalein. He'd have hated to have his captain as an enemy.

The captain stroked his moustache as he turned towards the lieutenant waiting rigidly at attention.

"This has been an enlightening experience for you, I believe, Lieutenant Solo," Aamalein said charitably.

"Yes, sir," Solo replied.

"I'll be passing on favourable comments regarding your performance to your flight commander."

Solo was distantly dazed that he didn't feel more excited at the assessment, that he instead felt hollow and resigned. "Thank you, sir."

"You've earned it, Lieutenant. I'm sure even Commander Saker would have to agree with me."

Saker frowned uncomfortably at the position he had been placed in and forwent the opportunity to speak by smiling stiffly at Aamalein.

"You've got a long way to go, though, Lieutenant," Aamalein continued. "You've only just started your career. If you keep on this path, keep focused on what is required and expected of you, you won't go wrong."

"Yes, sir."

"With your capabilities as a pilot, you have the potential to be one of our finest officers. That is, if you keep heading in the same direction as the rest of us." Aamalein smiled briefly. "Make sure you don't fall behind, Lieutenant."

"No, sir."

Captain Aamalein templed his fingers, pushed then under his chin as he pursed his lips in thought. Saker's eyes tracked between the captain and the lieutenant.

"Lieutenant Solo, after you've attended to your duties tomorrow and arranged for our luggage to be collected, you're free until you are required to conduct pre-flight checks."

Saker closed his eyes in disgust.

A slight frown marred Han's brow. He wondered if there was an ulterior motive to Aamalein's offer. After his previous altercations with Montesuren, he wasn't too sure he wanted to venture back into the displays and exhibitions.

"I'll have no further duties for you until then, so you may as well make the most of what time you have left here."

"Thank you, sir," Han responded smoothly, already thinking maybe he shouldn't look a gift nerf in the mouth. It couldn't hurt to check out those swoops and bikes again.

"That will be all, Lieutenant."

Lieutenant Solo saluted, conducted an about turn and departed from Aamalein's suite. He marched the length of the corridor to the turbolifts, called the car and stood himself at ease before he recognised that he had not relaxed his military stance or bearing. Then he defiantly slumped his shoulders and dug his hands deep into his pockets, the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth the only indication of the rebellious delight suddenly welling within. It was the most relaxed he'd felt in days.

The turbolift arrived empty and Han ambled in to it. When the lift stopped at the next level, he sighed with exasperation. All he wanted to do was get back to his room. The doors hissed open to an empty corridor. He slouched against the wall at the back of the lift, rubbing his neck and yawning, willing the doors to close.

He heard the sound of running footsteps and a half-cry of annoyance as the doors began to close, but he had no compulsion to assist the other person. He was yawing again when a young woman burst into the lift. Her flat shoes skidded on the polished floor and she crashed into Han as she attempted to stop herself. Caught in mid-yawn and hit midriff, Han groaned, but instinctively held the girl against his chest to prevent her from falling to the floor of the car.

He looked down at the top of the head laying pressed against his chest. Framed by black, bobbed hair, a reddening face glanced up into his. Han's eyes lit up. It was one of the girls he had seen in the cafe.

Embarrassed, the young woman averted her eyes and struggled from his arms.

"Don't leave now, sweetheart," he said unthinkingly. "I was just starting to enjoy it."

Han mentally kicked himself as the girl grimaced and moved to the far side of the car. His ill-thought words had ruined the perfect opportunity he'd had to gain the girl's trust.

 _What was that about thinking too much?_

A mixture of disdain and indifference sullied the girl's pretty face in response to his apologetic smile.

"Hey. Didn't I see you the other night?" Han suddenly asked brightly, trying to find a topic of conversation. "In that cafe near the military docking bays?"

The girl swallowed nervously. "I don't believe so, Lieutenant."

 _Going nowhere with that line,_ he thought quickly, _but she knows military rank._

"Have you got a boyfriend in the military?" he asked. He doubted she did but he figured she would be receptive to the possibility.

She blushed at the personal question, then smiled hesitantly, perhaps pleased that she looked like she might have a boyfriend. "What makes you ask that?"

 _She hasn't replied to the question,_ he considered appreciatively. _Clever girl. Keeping me guessing._

Han half-shrugged. "You know Imperial rank and as a girl as pretty as you would have to have a boyfriend, I figured that if you knew the rank then your boyfriend might be in the forces."

Though still shy, the girl's smile was genuine. "My brother is a stormtrooper," she admitted. "What knowledge I do have comes from him."

 _Oh, great,_ Han thought bleakly. _I'm hitting on a trooper's sister._ But he pressed on regardless.

"And the boyfriend?"

Biting her bottom lip, she eyed him critically. He straightened his shoulders self-consciously, hoping he didn't look too tired.

"You're Corellian, aren't you?"

He wondered what she meant by that question. Some human races had a prejudiced dislike of Corellians, not that he could ever understand why. He decided to play her at her own game.

"What makes you ask that?" he said, grinning at her smirk as she heard her own question turned back on her.

"You sound Corellian," she explained. "The accent gives you away."

Her own accent, rounded vowels and the suede jumpsuit she wore supported Han's original theory that the girl was from an affluent family. Ordinarily, Han wasn't too interested in women who associated in different social and economic levels from what he did; the thought he might catch one looking at him patronisingly or sympathetically made him uncomfortable. But this situation was different. Han was older, wiser and more experienced than the girl. This conquest would be one for _his_ side of the street.

"I wasn't aware I was hiding," he replied, a touch defensively. "But if it bothers you, I'll keep my mouth shut."

Amused, the girl shook her head dismissively. "Just an observation," she explained, taking confidence in the slight she had made against him. "I like to know who I'm dealing with."

 _Who she's dealing with?_ _Kest, this girl is definitely outta my league. But I'll show her who she's "dealing" with._

He had a trump card to reveal in his hand and he suspected she was the sort of girl who would be affected by his next revelation.

He sketched a shallow bow. "Lieutenant Solo, at you service, ma'am. I'm a pilot with Number 77 Squadron."

Her dark eyes flashed with interest. "You're a pilot?"

 _Gotcha!_

"All the best Corellians are pilots," he said smoothly. "And only the best pilots are Corellians."

She didn't have an opportunity to react to his boast, for the doors hissed open at the next stop. She stifled a gasp as two blue-scaled, methane-breathing Drackmarians entered the lift car, their bulbous life-support apparatus clinking together as they conferred in their gasping, guttural language. Han noticed the girl cautiously watching the methane-filled helmets and the ferocious fangs gleaming through the green mist. Fortunately the Drackmarians were more intent on discussing the finer points of sabacc than munching on the small humans. However, Han took advantage of the situation by protectively moving next to the girl. She smiled at him gratefully.

"Where were you going in such a hurry?" he whispered to her under the gurgles of the Drackmarians' respiration and voices. "I'm not used to pretty girls running into me in turbolifts."

She cringed. "I'm sorry. I'm usually not so clumsy." She sighed, annoyed with herself. "I've been waiting for this lift for a while. I'd just stepped back into my room for a moment when I realised it had arrived. I had to run to catch it." She half-smiled as if she already knew the answer to her next question. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

With a pained expression on his face, he rubbed his ribs. "Nah. I've had worse." He held his hand held out to her in friendship. "I'm Han."

She hesitated, then slipped her palm into his. "Nyssa."

Her soft skin brushed against his work-roughened hand, and he stared deep into her eyes.

"Pleased to meet you, Nyssa."

Suddenly shy again, she dropped his hand and her gaze, smiled coyly at the floor. He bent down towards her, searching her down-turned face with an exaggerated air as he tried look into her eyes.

"So where you going?" he asked again.

Eyes still downcast, Nyssa explained, "I had to get out of that room. Six girls in two connecting rooms. My friends are so..." She shrugged. "Things get oppressive. I was going crazy."

"Can I come with you?" Han asked.

She looked up into his open face and he smiled again as her cheeks blushed.

"That's better. I thought you were gonna hide from me for the rest of the ride."

He noticed as she glanced nervously at the Drackmarians. "Don't worry about the methane-heads." He sneered in response to the dark glare flashing from the helmets, then grinned at her. "It's me you have to worry about," he said with a wink.

Nyssa smiled and blushed again.

Although she was young, she was definitely cute, and her bodysuit did interesting things to the curves of her body. The slightly citric scent of her perfume lingered in his nostrils. She compliantly allowed him to take her hand again and he felt a tingle in his blood he hadn't experienced since…since the woman in the bar the other night. Since Ascher.He pushed that thought aside. _Don't think about Ascher now. Think of Nyssa._

The lift came to a halt at the lowest level of Triandra's exhibition and entertainment disc. The Drackmarians clambered out leaving the two humans staring silently at each other at the rear of the lift. Nyssa withdrew her hand from Han's as if to leave, but instead she remained expectantly by his side.

The silence was too much for him. He had to act before the moment was lost, and he was reasonably confident he had her entranced. Besides, she liked pilots.

"C'mon. I'll buy you a drink and we'll go crazy together."

Her shiny, black hair bobbed as she nodded. "That would be nice."


	10. Chapter 10

**LIFE DEBT**

by CorellianBlue

(first published 1998, updated 2015)

 _Part X_

 _What are you doing here, Solo?_

Han rubbed at the tightness in his forehead. He was sitting in the middle row of the amphitheatre, sandwiched between a pack of rowdy humans, watching two Rodians down on the brightly lit stage. Even from this distance, Han could smell the stench magnified by the viscous sweat slicking their green, half-naked bodies. The Rodians nimbly stalked each other, their hands moving in elaborate circling motions, prehensile snouts twitching, each seeking an opening to thrust a delicately pointed foot into the other's gut or neck.

They were compliant competitors here at The Pit, and although they appeared skilled at this agile combat, it was a slow, methodical match relying upon waiting, anticipating, thrust and parry, like a graceful dance. And it was boring the nearly full house audience to distraction.

Beings from more star systems than Han could guess lazed in their seats, appendages slung loosely in poses of boredom and disinterest. A few from the more cultured and refined races leaned forward with curiosity, but on the whole, a collective sigh escaped from the orifices of the gathering.

This was the third competition Han had sat through, and he wasn't certain why he had come.

No, that wasn't quite true. He knew why he had come.

The original arrangements had been to spend some time with Nyssa after he finished his morning duties. Then Aamalein had released Solo early and, with time on his hands, Han had unconsciously headed for The Pit. Despite trying to ignore his thoughts, it had been playing on his mind. He wanted to see the Wookiee—Chewie—one final time. Why he felt the compulsion to see the Wookiee again was something he couldn't comprehend.

There was no way he would have gain entrance to the rear of The Pit, so Han had been momentarily pleased when he'd read the program and saw that the Wookiee was slated for an appearance. However, his foolish eagerness was quelled when he realised Chewie's opponent was the professional combatant, Bladis, a hulking mass of artificially-enhanced muscle and rage. A vigorous Wookiee in peak condition might pose a threat to the ugly humanoid, but Chewie was far from good health. Regardless of the mismatch and the disquiet settling in his stomach, Han had purchased a ticket and assumed a seat with the rest of the motley crowd.

Fortunately Solo had missed the match between a large, snapping reptilian quadruped and a Nek battle dog, though he had witnessed the disembowelled and dismembered results. He had sat down just as sanitation droids were cleaning up the remains of the reptile. A joyous buzz had whipped up the crowd as they'd collected winnings from the gambling booths located along the upper tier of the arena, buoyed both by the credits they had won and the spilling of blood.

The next two battles had been bloody, scrappy affairs between diminutive, ravenous creatures, their viciousness and tenacity making up for their lack of height. In both instances, Han couldn't tell who had won, if indeed there had been a victor. All the razor-toothed animals had literally slashed and torn themselves apart. The spectators had hooted, applauded and stamped their feet, paws and pseudopods with delight when both matches had resulted in bloodied lumps of meat oozing and writhing spasmodically in the centre of the arena. The fetid smell of flesh, blood and sweat still tainted the air.

Solo questioned his sanity again. There was nothing to be gained by seeing the Wookiee slave for a final time, and nothing Han could do to help him. Han's last visit to the cells had been insipid and pointless, and had seen him retreat into a facade of indifference to cover his own self-doubts. The mask had not fit him well, but it appeared to have been sufficient enough to fool Aamalein and Saker, and momentarily even himself. Despite this, the plight of the Wookiee had seeped through his impassive detachment. Perhaps nothing could be achieved by seeing the Wookiee, but the _need_ to be here was undeniable.

Han patted the heavy blaster pistol stuffed into the holster on his hip. His decision to flout the rules and wear his own personal sidearm had been more instinctive than pre-meditated. He was uncertain whether he had made the decision to wear the DL-44 before or after his decided to see the Wookiee. His custom-made blaster was not designed for the confines of the Imperial-issue holster and it sat at an awkward and uncomfortable angle. Yet the blaster's presence calmed his composure and bolstered his confidence. It may have been wrong, but it _felt_ so right.

Down on the stage, the shorter Rodian suddenly lurched forward, aiming his bare foot into the stomach of his opponent. His foot was blocked and then clenched in the fist of the other, bulkier Rodian, who twisted the leg quickly. The smaller Rodian stumbled and half fell as his opponent's foot flashed up and jabbed him in the neck. A sickening snap cleft the subdued atmosphere. A parallel snap sounded as heads in the audience immediately turned towards the stage. The Rodian crumpled to the floor, his head bent at an unnatural angle, his neck obviously broken. The crowd roared its approval and appreciation as the victor ceremonially placed his foot on the head of his dead cousin.

The pilot rubbed wearily at his eyes as the men next to him hooted and cheered. Han glanced at his chrono; it was only a matter of minutes before he was due to meet Nyssa. He had enjoyed her company last night, though he suspected it was more the idea of being with a woman than the actual occasion which had appealed to him most.

Nyssa was a bright and cheerful companion, so he had forced himself to ignore her more refined manners and well-educated bearing. And although she was only a few years younger than he, she was more naive than he had ever been. Han guessed he was probably the first man who had shown her any sort of serious attention.

Regrettably, the thought of spending more time with the pretty young woman had become an annoyance, as if it was another onerous duty he was required to perform. He only hoped that it was a necessary means unto an end and that the rewards would be worth it.

Over the din of the audience, a loud, brassy fanfare resonated throughout the arena and the victorious Rodian strutted around the stage, his hands clutched together and raised in self-congratulation. Han watched the Rodian abstractedly, wondering how the Wookiee would behave under the garish arena lights where the Rodian now marched. Would the Wookiee be the fierce beast Montesuren claimed he was? Or would he be weary from Montesuren's beatings? Malnourished and listless, or claws and teeth flashing, tearing? Would the Wookiee launch an immediate and deadly attack on his opponent, or would he remained subdued until provoked and only respond when confronted with deadly force?

Was that why Solo felt compelled to come here? Was he only interested in what sort of a fight the Wookiee would put up?

A heavy, bitter taste welled within Han. He blinked as if awaking from a dream, and swallowed the nausea away. He had better things to do with his time. Besides, Nyssa would be waiting for him. That was something tangible he could understand.

Solo pushed himself out of the seat and moved down the row, elbowing his way past the standing members of the audience. He became vaguely aware the fanfare had dissolved into the subdued melody which played prior to the start of a competition, but he was intent on leaving as quickly as possible. The irrational urge to draw his blaster and shoot a clear path to the exit stumbled through his mind, however the crowd were now resuming their seats in preparation for the next event.

Han reached the main stairs and climbed to the landing which led down to the main entrance. The audience murmured with an expectant hush as the remaining stragglers hurried to their seats. On the landing, Solo brushed past a tentacle-faced Quarren and continued on.

A savage, blood-curdling howl made the hair on the back of his neck rise. He halted him mid-stride.

The Wookiee. _Chewie._

A ferocious snarl born of pure rage was drowned out by the crowd's applause and cheers. Inexplicably drawn back to the arena, Han stood at the top of the landing and gazed down onto the stage.

The Wookiee was near the front of the stage, scowling at a person who stood on the narrow platform separating the stage from the first row of seating. Han knew it was Montesuren even before he saw the major's cruel face. With lips pulled back and fangs bared, Chewie batted a paw at the long shock staff Montesuren prodded into his ribs. Montesuren rewarded him with a burst of energy from the slavers collar. Chewie stretched his head back in sheer agony. The crowd roared appreciatively.

Han's face hardened, his eyes narrowed. His body tensed, coiled, anticipating the assault he knew he would never make on the major.

Further acclamations heralded the arrival of Bladis onto the stage. The muscle-bound humanoid stood as tall as the Wookiee, but his bulk made him appear larger. The pectoral muscles on his chest glistened with oil, and the slabs of quadriceps, hamstrings and calf muscles on his bare legs twitched as he strode into the centre of the stage, his fists balled arrogantly balled. A few of the more impressionable members of the audience rose from their seats and roared with appreciation.

Montesuren pushed the staff at the Wookiee in an attempt to move him towards Bladis, but Chewie stood his ground. Montesuren cursed, punched at the collar remote again. The Wookiee screamed and staggered.

The uproar in the amphitheatre became a buzzing in Han's ears as he focused on Montesuren. A deep, cold hatred surged within the young lieutenant. It was like nothing he had experienced before. It was not a boiling, red anger clouding his judgment, but a controlled fury that heightened his senses and made him aware that the shield generator had not yet been activated, that the major had his back to him and was preoccupied with the Wookiee.

In those moments, nothing existed apart himself, the major, the blaster weighting his side. Solo's finger casually clicked off the blaster's safety.

The Wookiee clutched at the collar around his throat as he struggled to remain upright. He buckled over as another jolt seared through him and shut his eyes to repress a yelp. Doubled up and breathing raggedly through parched lips, Chewie's eyes suddenly snapped open. With his head bent to one side and looking up into the arena's seating, the Wookie saw the figure of a man on the landing. A sniff of the air confirmed it was the young Imperial lieutenant who had offered him compassion, an emotion which had been unfamiliar to the Wookiee for too many years. Now the figure in black struck the pose of a gunman, and his target stood immediately in front Chewie. Montesuren: the inexorable source of the Wookiee's pain and captivity.

Solo's breathing slowed as he concentrated on the major. His fingers worked near the butt of his weapon. Stretching. Waiting. Despite his heart hammering in his chest, he felt strangely at ease.

Montesuren raised the collar remote and pushed the button. The Wookiee momentarily writhed, then exploded towards the major, his scream of pain transforming into a full-throated war cry.

Solo jerked his draw to a halt as Chewie lunged at Montesuren; any bolt he would have fired would undoubtedly have collected the Wookiee as well. Confusion gave way to relief as Solo watched the Wookiee rake his claws across the major's face and land heavily on top of him. Human arms and legs kicked wildly under the hairy Wookiee body as arena attendants rushed forward to assist. Shock batons, staffs, fists and boots rained down on the Wookiee, Chewie gave up almost immediately, lied down submissively, unresisting.

Blood streaming down his face, Montesuren scrambled from under the weight of the Wookiee slave. He looked pale and shocked, but he had enough composure to kick a boot into the Wookiee's side, the collar remote obviously buried somewhere beneath.

Solo's mouth slipped into a grim smile as he holstered his blaster. A casual glance out the corner of his eyes revealed no one had noticed his change from Imperial officer to potential assassin. Or if they had, they chose to ignore it.

Bladis had not moved from his position throughout the entire exchange. The audience were on their feet, booing and hissing. Some were leaving the amphitheatre in disgust. Others threw whatever they could get their hands on towards the stage. Food, clothing, even seat cushions.

A rush of adrenalin unexpectedly burst through Han's system, a great tide of elation and fear that sent his right hand shaking. Sweat trickled from his temple and down the side of his face. Riding the surge, Han closed his eyes and savoured the dizzying high buzzing in his head.

He had nearly killed a man—a superior—in cold blood.

And he didn't care.

On the stage, the Wookiee wearily raised his head. Han's eyes flickered open. He could have sworn the blue Wookiee eyes stared up into the amphitheatre at him, before a club to the head rendered the slave unconscious. Solo watched as arena assistants unceremoniously dragged the Wookiee across the floor and out the exit Montesuren had already passed through.

The fight was over.

The Wookiee was momentarily spared from further pain, possibly death. And Han had been spared from murder.


	11. Chapter 11

**LIFE DEBT**

by CorellianBlue

(first published 1998, updated 2015)

 _Part XI_

Han Solo was running out of time.

He stretched his legs out underneath the cafe table he was sitting at, fidgeted uncomfortably, then pulled them up back under his chair again. The girl, Nyssa, was opposite him, gazing at him with a mixture of hope and trepidation across her pretty face. His arm rested against the table in front of him, allowing Nyssa to hold his hand while his other caressed a mug of Corellian ale. Nyssa's fingers interlaced his. From the perspiration on her palm he could tell she was nervous.

She was talking to him now and he nodded encouragingly, though he hadn't heard a word she had said. The cafe's wall chrono reminded him he had only two hours left before he was due to commence pre-flight checks.

The time he had spent with Nyssa had gone reasonably well. He was still riding high from the incident at The Pit. With adrenalin scudding through his system, he had fairly bounded to meet her. Exhilaration had made him feel two metres tall and laser-proof, and he had immediately wanted to satisfy the passion that burnt within him. However he knew that over-eagerness would get him nowhere, so he had instead indulged Nyssa's every whim and feigned attentiveness. She chose where they ate—so he transformed into a devout vegetarian. She had wanted to view domestic pet exhibitions, leisure shows, sculpture and art displays—so he became a veterinarian with a bent for conform lounges and a refined aesthetic sense.

He had even sat through a musical holovid in the hope that back row seats and flickering shadows would provide the ideal environment for them to become more closely acquainted. Frustratingly, Nyssa had preferred to sit in the middle of a crowd, in the middle of the theatre. Han had to content himself with placing his arm around her shoulders, tugging at his belt, and shifting in his seat restlessly, crossing and uncrossing his legs in an attempt to find a more comfortable position.

The cool, dark atmosphere of the theatre had finally quelled his buzzing high. Bored with the holovid playing, his mind had wandered and he had found himself reliving the incident at The Pit in intricate detail.

The target of Montesuren burning in his eyes,

The instant he decided to draw his weapon.

His elbow jerking his hand up and back.

His fingers closing around the blaster butt, index finger sliding over the trigger.

His shoulder dipping as his hand withdrew the DL-44 from its holster.

Levelling the blaster.

Lock and tone, as if something in his brain confirmed he was on target and cleared to open fire...

Han Solo did not believe in _'what ifs'_ ; life had taught him that dwelling on ' _what would have been'_ and _'what might have happened'_ was unnecessary introspection for those who could afford the luxury of grief and regret. And so he did not consider what might have happened if he had fired at Montersuren, not because he did not want to think about, but because it did not _occur_ to him to think about it.

What did occur to him was the question of why the Wookiee had attacked the major. It seemed strange, after all these years, that Chewie had chosen this particular fight to defy and attack his captor. Maybe the slave had finally cracked, had been pushed one time too many. Perhaps the Wookiee had decided he had nothing left to lose, that a life of servitude and bondage was no life at all.

By the time the couple left the holovid theatre, Han's desires had cooled down to only glowing embers. Now as he sat opposite Nyssa in the cafe, knowing that the evening was rapidly drawing to a close and feeling her expectant eyes searching his face, he couldn't help thinking about that damn Wookiee again. That annoyed him even more. His full concentration should have been on convincing Nyssa why she should go back with him to his cabin. And from the way she was looking at him, he didn't think she would need _that_ much convincing.

"So do you think you will?"

"Huh?" Had she been talking to him all this time?

Nyssa's smile fell when she understood he hadn't been listening.

"Visit me?" Disappointment filled her voice. "Do you think you'll visit me when you're portside one day?"

"Oh, sure," he beamed, hoping his slow response hadn't lost him too much valuable ground. "I'd love to see you again."

He squeezed her hand and grinned his lopsided grin, knowing the affect it had on some women. Nyssa's shy smile returned. She had a nice smile, inviting lips, a nicely proportioned body with curves and bumps in all the right places. A rush surged through his blood as he focused on her again.

"I've had a great time, Nyssa."

"It's been nice…Han." She paused, relishing the sound of his name spoken in her voice.

His hazel eyes stared solemnly into hers. "I'll miss you." It wasn't _that_ much of a lie.

As if afraid of what he might say next, she quickly offered, "I'll send you regular 'net messages."

He continued staring into her eyes as he held her hand, caressing the backs of her fingers with his thumb. Their silence was heavy and he dragged out the anticipation until it hung thick between them.

"Let's go somewhere we can be alone for a while." His voice was soft and deep. He felt her hand tremble in his. "So I can say good-bye to you properly."

She swallowed, glanced at the table, then back up at him. The compliant shine to her eyes was tinged with uncertainty. He dipped his head in a questioning gesture, smiled reassuringly. She bit her bottom lip indecisively. Just as he was thinking his luck had soured, Nyssa surprised him by nodding meekly. He could not contain his relief and beamed at her gratefully.

Han was still sitting there, holding her hand, thanking all the Corellian good luck invocations he had been muttering in his mind, when the sound of a Wookiee snarl sliced through him. His head instinctively jerked around and he saw Major Montesuren pulling and prodding the reticent Wookiee along past the outskirts of the cafe. The Wookiee's hands were cuffed in front of him by a pair of binders and a control shaft was attached to the slavers collar, allowing Montesuren to drag or push the Wookiee with the pole-like device and trigger the collar's electrical shocks direct from the shaft. The short shock baton was hitched to Montesuren's belt, but he used the longer staff Han had seen at The Pit to further chastise the Wookiee.

Chewie gobbled viciously at the major and received another jolt from the collar. Montesuren's face was hard and ugly. A protective bandage covered his cheek where the Wookiee's claws had ripped through the flesh and a purple bruise had formed in the hollow of his eye. Although the Wookiee was relatively compliant, Montesuren savagely rapped the shock staff across his shaggy shoulders and grinned at the high-pitch yelp that Chewie released.

Han's hands unconsciously cramped into fists. Nyssa cried out as she pulled her hand from his and followed his gaze. An obsessive, trance-like visage concealed his features, his eyes transfixed on the major and the Wookiee as they moved off towards the military docking bays. Solo adjusted the blaster in his holster.

"Stay here," he told Nyssa bluntly. "I won't be long."

"Han..."

He moved out of the cafe without noticing the questioning look on her face.

Long, purposeful strides carried him down the corridor leading to the docking bays. His eyes were points of steel. Cold hatred swelled through him, propelling him forwards, tightening his muscles with suppressed energy. He was only vaguely aware of his heart pounding in his chest.

Ahead, Montesuren struggled briefly with the Wookiee, then continued down the right arm of the corridor. Han counted his steps like some deadly mantra, his mind consumed with stopping the Wookiee's agony, not even aware he didn't have a plan for how to stop it. All he knew was this time he _would_ stop the torture.

The blow which slammed into Montesuren's jaw was as painful as it was unexpected. The handle of the collar's control shaft slipped from his grasp as he stumbled backwards. He instinctively brought the shock staff up protectively, but his attacker was more agile and used the movement to press the cold metal against the major's throat and pin him against the wall of the corridor. The major writhed against the wall, his hands locked on the staff in an attempt to keep it off his larynx.

Montesuren's eyes bulged when he saw the identity of his attacker. Flushed with anger, Lieutenant Solo's face pressed close to his. The younger man's lips were curled back and his eyes gleamed with the same wildness the Wookiee displayed. Indignant wrath settled over the major, forcing away his initial alarm.

"Solo!" Montesuren's voice was choked by the force of the staff against his throat. "Solo!" When Solo responded by leaning harder against the staff, the major cursed vehemently. "Chuell'an qas! Lieutenant, have you lost your senses?!"

Over Solo's shoulder, the Wookiee viewed the scene impassively, making no attempt to escape.

"Lieutenant Solo!"

Solo did not blink, his eyes focused on the writhing, angry form he held pressed against the wall. The pulse drummed in his ears and throat; he had not drawn breath since departing the cafe. The red, vengeful face of the major glared up at him. Han sensed the presence of the Wookiee behind him, hovering off to one side, but for some reason he was not concerned with what Chewie might do, or even what would happen to him once this was over.

Cautiously, Han released the major, dropping the shock staff between them. The staff clattered on the floor. Montesuren rubbed at his neck and moved threateningly towards Han.

"You glaiket!" the major yelled furiously. "What are you doing?"

"Leave the Wookiee alone," Han demanded calmly.

"What?" Montesuren shook his head in amazement. He couldn't believe the gall of the young pilot. "Are you crazy?!"

"I told you to leave the Wookiee alone. Stop torturing him."

"Or what?" Montesuren snarled. "What'll you do to me?"

Han drew his DL-44 and levelled it at the major. Montesuren backed away, glanced at the Wookiee. Chewie's gaze flickered between the major, the young lieutenant and the blaster pistol.

"You never know what a crazy junior officer might do," Solo offered dangerously. As an afterthought, he included the Wookiee in his plans. "Right, Chewie?"

The Wookiee lowed softly in agreement.

"You're mad," Montesuren observed, his eyes not straying from the blaster. He thought about going for his own weapon, but doubted his chances. Solo seemed confident with the weapon, and crazy enough to use it.

"Have you been reading my psych profile, sir?" The feral glint in Solo's gaze had turned into an arrogant, self-assured gleam.

"I'll see you rot in hell for this, Solo."

"I'm already there, sir," the lieutenant mumbled, "I'm already there."

Without warning, the Wookiee launched himself at Montesuren, slamming the man against the wall and tearing the bandage and synthflesh patch from his cheek. Winded, Montesuren gasped and held his hands up acquiescently. Wookiee claws slashed and a matching set of parallel furrows appeared across Montesuren's other cheek.

"Solo!" Montesuren wailed. "Help me!"

Han watched indifferently as the Wookiee swiped his bound paws across Montesuren's head, once, twice.

 _Give him one for me, Wook,_ Solo thought smugly.

The Wookiee pummelled his tormentor with blows to the chest, stomach and head, the metal binders causing more damage than Wookiee paws on their own could do. Blood streamed from Montesuren's nose, mouth and numerous gashes. He wavered on his feet, arms wrapped around his head as he cringed from the Wookiee. A double backhand sent him sprawling and his body thudded sickeningly to the floor. The major lay unconscious at Chewie's feet.

The Wookiee stretched his arms above his head as best he could. His muzzle wrinkled back and he unleashed a blood curdling cry of relief and satisfaction. Despite the injuries he carried, he stood taller and straighter as he turned towards the pilot. Han immediately backed away, training his blaster pistol on the maniacally grinning Wookiee.

"Hold it right there, Wook," Solo warned, his finger tightening over the trigger. "Don't do anything stupid."

Chewie smiled wryly. The young Imperial's arrogance had melted round the edges and he seemed more at ease speaking from behind the barrel of a blaster.

The Wookiee rolled Montesuren over with his foot, searched through his uniform pockets, then turned back to Han who had followed Chewie's every movement with the weapon. As a reflex action, Han caught the electronic binder keys the Wookiee tossed to him. Chewie proffered his bindered wrists towards the man. When Solo hesitated, Chewie moved towards him and growled encouragingly. The black DL-44 barrel remained aimed at the Wookiee's chest.

"Whoa," Han frowned. "I can't be a part of this."

The Wookiee arched his expressive eyes and forehead, barked accusingly at his saviour.

Han didn't need a translation. He slowly nodded his head in agreement. "I am a part of this."

He holstered his blaster and released the Wookiee from the binders, half expecting at any moment to feel shaggy Wookiee claws clasp around his throat. He flinched as a heavy paw dropped onto his shoulder. The blue eyes showed him nothing save relief and gratitude. Chewie's mouth opened as if he wanted to say something but didn't quite know how to express what he was feeling. Han squirmed uncomfortably at the emotion he saw in the creature's face and glanced down at Montesuren's slumped form.

"We better make tracks," Solo muttered, pulling away from the Wookiee. "Gotta get you out of here."

After hurriedly cuffing Montesuren's arms behind his back and stuffing him behind a maintenance access hatch, Han and Chewie headed back down the corridor. Through unspoken agreement, Han held the control shaft that connected to the slaver's collar in case any witnesses happened by. Fortunately, due to the exclusive nature of the military docking bays, the chances of that happening were slim.

As he had neither the access nor flight codes for Montesuren's shuttle, Solo immediately discarded the notion of stealing the craft. The major's vessel an intra-system design and lacked a hyperdrive capability. Additionally, he had no idea how the crew on board the military transport vessel Montesuren had arrived in would take to seeing their boss fly off without them. Solo instead led the Wookiee to the shuttle he had piloted to Triandra. The idea of using Aamalein's personal shuttle was a lot simpler and cleaner, though with the shit piling up around him at the moment, Solo knew he would be covered it soon enough.

Weapon drawn, Solo keyed open the shuttle's hatch and entered. He leaned against a bulkhead, blaster pulled up against his cheek and glanced inside at the main passenger compartment. The lights were dimmed, exactly as he had expected to find them but he was taking no chances.

"Captain Aamalein? Commander Saker?" he called out through the ship. "Sirs?"

The shuttle was silent except for the life support and minor ship's systems burbling away. Solo increased the illumination level in the compartment and motioned for the Wookiee to enter. He pushed the release switch and the hatch sealed them off inside the relative safety of the shuttle.

The Wookiee let out a whoop of glee and spun around joyously. As he was still wearing the slavers collar, the control shaft spun with him like a mutant appendage, knocking against a bulkhead and catching the young man squarely on the temple. Solo clutched at his head and glared at the Wookiee.

"Kest, take it easy, will you!" he growled, ducking as the control shaft spun towards him again.

The Wookiee woofed apologetically, but his elation was overwhelming and he danced a jig down the centre of the aisle. Han watched the Wookiee grudgingly, a part of him relieved to know that Chewie's suffering had stopped, while the infrequently seen, rational side of his personality pondered the wisdom of his actions.

 _There go your wings again, buddy._

Solo couldn't honestly say that he regretted what he had done. _What's done, is done,_ he thought simply, and headed for the tech station to fetch a tool kit.

He returned to find the Wookiee lounging in one of the over-stuffed conform chairs, feet propped up on the table, his body swinging the chair slightly. The bottle of Alderaani tsalon was raised to his black lips and he drained its contents in one enormous gulp. Smacking his lips with relish, Chewie dropped the bottle to the floor and released an enormously satisfying belch. Han wrinkled his nose at the ensuing stench.

"Great," he muttered. "All I need is a flatulent Wookiee and that'll really make my day."

Chewie chuckled well-naturedly as he headed back to the drinks cabinet and rummaged through it. Han followed and commenced working on removing the slavers collar from around the Wookiee's neck. Chewie sighed and mumbled to himself as he searched through the bottles of alcohol, sampling the contents of every bottle, oblivious to Han's efforts. Solo found it increasingly difficult to work on the collar's release mechanism as the Wookiee bobbed up and down, throwing his head back to slurp at the alcohol.

Frustrated, Han protested, "C'mon, help me out here. Or would you prefer to keep this necklace as a memento of the time you spent with the Empire?"

The Wookiee selected a small bottle of roubron and stood still for the lieutenant, occasionally swigging the liquid and incurring annoyed glares from Solo when he did.

"Take it easy with that stuff," Han advised, jamming a small sonic drill into place. "You'll be in no condition to fly if you keep this up. You can fly, can't you?"

Chewie stopped in mid-swig and lowed questioningly.

"Don't know where you got that idea from, buddy." Solo concentrated on the collar, ignoring the Wookiee's mournful look. "I ain't coming with you. I'm in a heap of shit already. The last thing I need is a charge of desertion thrown in." _Just for good luck,_ he finished silently to himself, pushing the image of his flight commander from his mind. Tarroway would have his guts on a plate for this, more than just his wings.

"There."

The release mechanism snapped open and Han pulled the tight collar away from the Wookiee's neck. Chewie stretched his neck back in pure bliss, ran his paws through the ragged, singed hair around his throat. Raw, ugly scars appeared through the matted hair and Han averted his eyes. He tossed the collar to the floor and headed to the cockpit, leaving the Wookiee to savor his freedom in private.

In the cockpit, Solo punched up a request for immediate departure and commenced cursory pre-flight checks as he brought the engines directly on-line. The shuttle's engines whined in protest at not being gradually warmed up. He glanced behind him as the Wookiee entered the cockpit and waited behind the pilot's chair.

"I'm not wasting my time here, am I, Wookiee?" Solo asked, his eyes roaming over the instrument panel, fingers nimbly flicking switches. "You can fly, right? You won't go and run into an asteroid or something equally as moronic?"

When the Wookiee did not answer, Solo quickly added, "Cos I ain't coming. Got that straight? This is where we part company."

Chewie growled brusquely, but he affectionately ruffled the hair on Han's head. Solo pushed the huge paw away just as the flight clearance came through. The Wookiee would be gone in five minutes, then Solo could start coming up with some plausible story about how the Wookiee escaped and stole the shuttle. Unfortunately there was no story to explain his attack on a superior officer. For that there would be retribution. _So much for that 'bright career'. I'll be lucky to see starlight again._

Solo swung himself out of the pilot's seat and found himself face to face with the Wookiee in the confines of the cramped cockpit. Chewie's head tilted to one side as he considered the young man before him: the stubborn set mouth, the solid jaw he always seemed to lead with, the guarded eyes which refused to look straight at the Wookiee. He was unlike any Imperial Chewie had ever met before. Unlike even most humans he had known.

In that moment, the Wookiee perceived a profound sense of aloneness about the young man and he empathised with the concept for he had also experienced what it was like to be alone. However, the Wookiee suspected the lieutenant's isolation was more self-imposed rather than enforced, and he wondered what experiences had shaped the young man so that he actively rejected companionship and love.

Chewie's eyes widened as Han removed his blaster from the holster, stared longingly at the weapon, then passed it butt-first to the Wookiee.

"Here. You'll need this more than me." Solo pushed it into Chewie's paw. "Where I'm going, I don't think they'll take kindly to me having it."

Chewie solemnly stared at Solo. Then the Wookiee babbled some nonsense that Solo couldn't or didn't want to understand. He closed his ears to the grunts and growls, pushed his way past the shaggy humanoid and made his way towards the hatch. The indignant Wookiee followed and grabbed Solo roughly by the arm. The furious young pilot rounded on the Wookiee. He wanted to put some distance between himself and the escaped slave, and the sooner the better. He didn't have time for small talk.

The Wookiee's barks were more stressed and urgent now, and he spoke breathlessly as he tried to get his message through to the obstinate man in front of him. Anger seethed through Solo, until he finally pulled himself from Chewie's grasp and continued towards the hatch.

"I don't have time for this!" Solo yelled as he marched through the passenger compartment, the Wookiee close on his tail. "I'm glad you're glad that you're free. I appreciate your gratitude. But that's as far as it goes. Got it?"

He faced the Wookiee as he came to the hatchway, punched the release switch. An emotion which was unfamiliar to the young man played across the Wookiee's features as Solo hesitated on the threshold. Han grimaced, ran a hand through his hair.

"This is where I get off," he explained softly. "This is the life I've chosen. You didn't." He shrugged, struggling to explain himself. "Go home to your family, Chewie. While you still have time."

Solo turned quickly away from Chewie, stepped into the access tube, and moved to head back into the Facility. Then he suddenly turned back, a grin brightening his face.

"Hey! I got an idea."

He moved through the access tube into the docking bay arm and beckoned for Chewie to follow him. When the Wookiee was at his side, he gestured towards himself.

"Hit me."

Chewie frowned and stared at the lieutenant as if he had lost his mind. He shook his head and patted Han's shoulder in a friendly gesture.

"Hit me!" Solo yelled. "You're gonna have to do something, you big, ugly brute. I'm in a shit-load of trouble as it is. Maybe I can convince them this was all your big idea and I got dragged along for the ride."

Chewie nodded thoughtfully, then scowled. Smiling apologetically, he smashed an unenthusiastic arm across the man's head. Solo staggered under the force of the blow, but it wasn't enough to send him sprawling. He knew the power the Wookiee could generate; the swing had been about as forceful as if he had batted at an insect. But it still hurt.

Head throbbing, Solo glared at the Wookiee.

"What do you call that?" he snarled. "We'll be here all night if you keep that up." He pushed at the Wookiee's chest. "Hit me, for Kest's sake."

Solo didn't see the heavy blaster pistol flash through the air, only felt the pain wedge through his brain as the butt connected with his temple. He collapsed to the ground as if the tendons in his legs had been severed, slumping over to one side, vertigo washing over him. His vision was going black as he watched the Wookiee step back through the access tube, casting anxious glances back at him.

Han slipped into unconsciousness, grateful for the release from the reality of his actions and dreading the thought of awaking.


	12. Chapter 12

**LIFE DEBT**

by CorellianBlue

(first published 1998, updated 2015)

 _Part XII_

For the first time in his life, Han Solo didn't have trouble sitting still. He preferred not to move. The whole of his side ached from where a blaster rifle had smashed into it. His ribs were severely bruised, possibly cracked, and he winced with every breath he took.

He squinted through a swollen, purplish eye, grateful he could not see out of it properly. At least this way he could not see the faces seated in the gallery to his right.

Encrusted with blood, the corner of his mouth stung from where he had collided with an armoured fist. His hands rested in his lap as he'd been ordered and not on the table at which he was seated. The binders had been removed from his wrists, if only to provide a semblance of justice. But as this was an Imperial military court, Lieutenant Solo was in no doubt that the veracity of his guilt was not in question.

Solo's injuries were a result of the "resistance" he had displayed to the stormtroopers who had escorted him to his court martial. Initially, Han had been relieved when the troopers had appeared at the door of the solitary confinement cell for it had broken the monotony of his confinement.

He had measured the forty-five days of his detention by the two daily meals they pushed through the slot in the cell door prior to the change of watch. His time had been spent dozing on the hard sleeping pallet, running through pre-flight checks for a dozen different starships in his mind, manually calculating hyperspace jumps along known routes, and wondering if Chewie, the Wookiee, had made it home to Kashyyyk. And if Chewie had made it to Kashyyyk, had it been a welcoming homecoming, or had his home only echoed with memories of his family and former life.

Han had spent the rest of the time maintaining his health as best he could, doing sits-up and push-ups, and jogging around the perimeter of the small cell until he was weary enough to return to the bunk and doze again. His sleep was invariably shallow and unrestful, pitted with images of fang-filled Wookiee smiles, intense blue eyes, and massive cities perched high in the branches of giant trees. The dreams were so vivid and detailed, Han awoke appreciating that he must have paid more attention in the xeno-sociology lessons at school than he had otherwise thought.

More than anything, his dreams had annoyed Han for they had reminded him of where he was, so that even in his sleep he could not escape the detention cell. But he did not regret the actions which had led to his imprisonment.

The Wookiee was free. There was nothing more to it.

Deep within, Han sheltered a nugget of self-satisfaction. The only twinges he felt were at the fact he'd been caught.

The Imperial detention centre that Solo had been transferred to was located on the outskirts of the Corellian capital, Coronet. He did not expect, nor did he receive, any visitors. The few relatives he had would not have cared about his predicament, even if they had been told; Han's personal details had no listing for a Next of Kin.

After the initial enquiry into the circumstances surrounding the assault on Major Montesuren and the escape of the Wookiee, the naval provost investigators had not bothered Han with further questions. Fighting off an ingrained learning to resist questioning from authority figures, Han had obliged with what he'd thought was a credible story of how the Wookiee had assaulted Montesuren and then overpowered himself. But even if the investigators had believed him, Solo knew he was in trouble. He was a realist, after all.

And so Lieutenant Solo had sat there under the garish lighting of the cell, only vaguely wondering what his fate would be, torn between the relative safety and the numbing boredom offered by his cell.

The first Solo had known about his court martial was when four stormtroopers had appeared at the cell door. They had literally thrown his kit bag and dress uniform at him and hauled him off to a refresher stall. The shower had been cold and harsh against his skin, but it had felt good to be clean again and had helped to focus his mind. He had been grateful to shave the month's growth of brown-blond beard from his face, and a droid had even clipped his hair back to regulation length.

The few personal possessions from his cabin on board the _Gilt_ _Defender_ had been stuffed inside the kit bag. His empty gun rig was one item he was glad to see, but only served to remind that he had lost his custom-made DL-44 for good.

The bag also drew the enormity of the situation sharply into focus for Solo. It meant that not only was he on his way to his own court martial, but that the outcome had also been decided. Only the guilty went to trial with their bags already packed.

His ablutions complete, Solo had returned to the custody of the stormtroopers. The trooper sergeant had derided Lieutenant Solo about his remarkable transformation.

"See," the sergeant had told the other troopers. "I told you there was an Imperial officer under there somewhere. For the time being, anyway."

The stormtrooper had scrutinised him as if he was a raw recruit, straightened his collar and brushed down the back of his tunic.

"Got to make you look nice for the judge, sir. Can't have you turning up looking like no one cares." The sergeant had turned back to his men and commented, "They certainly don't make officers the way they used to. Look at the slime that tries to pass to themselves off as our superiors."

Solo had ignored their jostling attempts to provoke a reaction from him, and ignored the prodding from their rifle muzzles.

"Hey, Sarge," a trooper had offered, "I think the prisoner is attempting to escape."

A torrent of blaster rifles and fists had forced Solo to his knees, where a pair of binders had been clamped around his wrists.

"That'll teach you to behave, sir," the sergeant had snarled. "Come on. On your feet. Quick march."

Only certain areas of the court room were sufficiently lit to allow faces and features to be seen: the judge advocate's austere bench and chair, the prosecution team, the stormtroopers at the front and rear of the room, and the defendant, Lieutenant Han Solo.

The court room echoed with whispered murmurings from dimly lit gallery where Imperial officers sat like shadowy ghouls eager to pass judgment. Despite the lack of illumination, Lieutenant Commander Tarroway's dark eyes appeared to gleam out from the front row, boring into Han as effectively as Mukinbudian blood-worms.

The main body of the trial had passed, taking only an hour or so. It had not been much more than a litany of the charges laid against Lieutenant Solo and an embellished recounting of the incidents that had led to his imprisonment.

The judge advocate had retired to consider the evidence presented before him. Solo knew the deliberations would not take the judge long to make, particularly when Han's defending officer, a puffy-faced lieutenant commander, had advised him to remain seated.

Solo had been staring at his cap on the edge of the table, and he now glanced up at the defending officer who sat to his left. The lieutenant commander snuffled into a handkerchief and rubbed at watery eyes. The young pilot abstractedly hoped that whatever illness the elder man had wasn't contagious.

Solo turned his good eye forward, away from the rotund lieutenant commander, and surveyed the august court room again. Directly opposite on the far side of the room, the prosecuting officer and his three minions sat at a table similar to the one the defence sat at. The prosecuting team seemed relaxed and assured, confident they had presented a solid case against Lieutenant Solo.

When the prosecuting officer favoured the lieutenant with a smile, Solo quickly turned his attention to the judge advocate's elaborate chair and bench. The Imperial seal crowned the obsidian throne and two impassive stormtroopers flanked it, blaster rifles resting across their white-armoured chests.

The judge was a short, unimpressive-looking naval captain, perhaps twice Solo's age. He had solemnly listened to the evidence presented, nodding to himself, jotting notes on a datapad by his side. Throughout the trial he had glared darkly at Lieutenant Solo, and once he had been forced to order the officers in the gallery to remain silent. Now with the judge advocate absent, the gallery were avidly discussing the case amongst themselves.

Solo was glad his swollen eye and the darkness meant he could not see Lieutenant Commander Tarroway, even if he had wanted. Solo's hatred and disrespect for the man burned stronger than anything he felt before, even his loathing of Montesuren.

The only time Han had faced Tarroway following the escape of the Wookiee, had been in the brig back onboard the _Gilt_ _Defender_. Weary from interrogation and lack of sleep, Lieutenant Solo had immediately snapped to attention when his flight commander had entered the small holding cell. Solo had dreaded the thought of facing Tarroway, remorseful that his actions may have impacted on a man who was a highly competent officer.

Solo had stood fast as Tarroway had circled him like a narkaa, forcing down the knot of shame that had lodged within his throat. The foreign emotion had disturbed Han, especially when he knew he had done nothing of which to be ashamed.

Solo had felt the controlled rage radiating from Tarroway, but the man had shown nothing on his face save for a tight smile as he had silently studied the young pilot. Unable to withstand the intense scrutiny, Solo had felt compelled to justify his actions and explain why he had broken his pledge to stay out of trouble.

Solo had blurted out, "Sir, I—"

"What did I tell you, Slick?" Tarroway had calmly asked.

Solo had not responded to the softly spoken question and Tarroway had departed the cell, leaving Han feeling dazed and empty.

During the trial, Lieutenant Solo had been forced to listen to his flight commander tell the court about the promising junior officer who had progressively disrupted squadron life and ruined his own career due to a flippant and irresponsible attitude. There was mention of Solo's adverse report and the threat of a formal warning failing to restore some sense of duty in the lieutenant. Tarroway insisted that Solo had begged for a final chance to redeem himself and had requested the opportunity to act as Captain Aamalein's pilot. Tarroway had explained that because Solo had been awarded the Corellian Bloodstripe, the lieutenant commande had agreed give the young pilot one final chance. Tarroway respected what the commendation stood for and he had hoped that Lieutenant Solo did too, but he admitted that he was obviously wrong about Solo's regard for the 'Stripe.

Aamalein and Saker had provided their evidence via the holonet. Predictably, they had recounted many real and fictional instances of insubordination and disobedience from the lieutenant. Then Tarroway and Solo's commanding officer had provided evidence regarding five vials of glitterstim spice they had personally discovered in Han's quarters. The vials were not produced as physical evidence as the oral testimony of Imperial officers was deemed to be sufficient. The spice—if it existed—didn't belong to Solo. Han hadn't seen any drugs, spice or otherwise, since the time he had spent homeless on the streets of Coronet.

With each perjurious word uttered by Solo's flight commander and CO, Tarroway's previous threat— _"I'll personally ruin your life."_ —echoed in Han's ears. It hardly mattered that Han wasn't given the opportunity to defend that particular charge. The judge would have been unlikely to believe him anyway.

Major Montesuren had finally taken the stand, his stride hampered by an obvious limp. The pale scars marking the major's face had become red and angry as he had provided a remarkably accurate and unemotional account of the incidents leading up to the assault on him, the insubordination Lieutenant Solo had displayed towards him, the unexpected attack from the lieutenant, the blaster Solo had aimed at him when Montesuren had attempted to gain control of the situation, and the subsequent escape of the Wookiee.

Montesuren had smiled jubilantly at Solo at the completion of his testimony and had taken a seat in the gallery. Han could hear the major now, snorting his delight to whoever would listen.

Lieutenant Solo had not been given the chance to respond to the accusations which had been laid against him. His defending officer had only acknowledged the charges and indicated that the defendant had chosen not to make a plea. That was about the only truthful aspect of the trial. Han knew he was guilty, but he elected not to acknowledge the fact.

A hard rock wedged in the hole in Han's stomach. He didn't really care what happened next. He was a Corellian of far different stock to the men who sat in judgment on him. Perhaps only simple dumb luck had seen him get as far as he had in the navy. He should have realised long ago that this wasn't the life for him.

The door to the judge advocate chambers slid open and a uniformed court official preceded the judge into the court room.

"All rise," the official crisply ordered.

Lieutenant Solo, the defending officer and the prosecution team were already on their feet before the other Imperial officers ceased their whisperings and obediently rose. The judge Advocate glared at the gallery for their tardiness before resuming his seat.

"You may be seated," the official bade the audience.

Lieutenant Solo's gaze remained fixed on the judge and he remained standing even though the rest of the court room had sat. The defending officer tugged at Solo's sleeve and told him to sit down, which he did just as the judge adjusted his uniform and barked out his name.

"Lieutenant Solo."

The defending officer prodded the lieutenant to his feet again and motioned for him to move out into the centre of the court room. Pulse racing, Solo pulled on his cap, came to attention, marched to the position he that had previously been pointed out to him and smartly drew to a halt. It may have seemed incongruous for Solo to maintain a military bearing while on trial for his failings as an Imperial officer, however he continued to show his respect towards the court and the navy if not his colleagues and superiors.

The judge advocate frowned at his datapad, then started at the lieutenant before him. Lieutenant Solo stood rigidly at attention, head up, eyes locked forward.

Solo's breathing was pained and restricted, his ribs aching with each in-take and he suspected the split on his mouth had started bleeding again. During the time he had spent in confinement, Solo had dispassionately considered that there were only two possible penalties he would receive—imprisonment or death. He had to admit that neither appealed to him, but if he'd come to terms with receiving either punishment then why was his heart thumping frantically within his chest?

"Lieutenant Han Solo, service number O230247, junior pilot posted to Number 77 Squadron on the _Gilt Defender_." The judge's voice was carefully measured. "Lieutenant Solo, I have deliberated on the evidence presented before this court in relation to the following charges levied against you." He consulted the datapad, cleared his throat. "Twenty-one charges of insubordination. Twelve charges of disobeying a command. Assault on a superior officer." The judge raised eyebrow and shook his head. "Aiding the escape of an enslaved species, namely a Wookiee, serial number 13071942. Interfering with Imperial property, namely a Wookiee, serial number 13071942. Theft of Imperial property, namely a Tarion class shuttle, Serial A-213. Possession of a prohibited substance, being five vials of glitterstim spice." The judge turned from the datapad and stared harshly at the young lieutenant. "And prejudicial behavior."

 _Always slap on a charge of prejudicial behavior,_ Lieutenant Solo thought distantly. _Just for luck._ He remembered that from the military law lectures at the Academy.

"That's quite a list for someone who hasn't been in the navy for too long, Lieutenant," the judge continued, leaning forward in his chair. "And you wouldn't be appearing before me if you weren't guilty."

In turn, the judge advocate deliberately looked at the prosecuting officer, the defending officer, the members of the gallery, and the stormtroopers standing guard at the main doors. "I have found all elements of proof to have been soundly and duly proven by the evidence presented to the court by the witnesses." His gaze zeroed in on Solo again. "I therefore find Lieutenant Han Solo guilty on all counts."

The gallery murmured quietly in agreement. Solo resisted the urge to close his eyes. _Get on with it,_ he thought.

"In deciding your punishment, I have considered your previous conduct record as tendered by Lieutenant Commander Tarroway."

 _Screw Tarroway._

The judge advocate must have noticed Solo's face had paled for he paused, allowing the gravity of the situation to fully sink in before continuing.

"Fortunately for you, I have also received a plea in mitigation lodged on your behalf by a former superior, Lieutenant Commander Saxel."

Solo's breath lodged in his throat. His instinct was to turn towards the darkened gallery and search the judgmental faces for Ascher. Was she here in the room? Had she been here the whole trial? Had she heard the list of his failings?

"In the plea, Lieutenant Commander Saxel has cited the honours you received at the Academy, your performance during you tour of duty with Number One Fighter Squadron, the circumstances for which you were awarded the Corellian Bloodstripe, and the time you have already spent in detention."

Han considered that Ascher must have been keeping track of him if she knew about his time in detention. And then suddenly he didn't want to face her, couldn't bear the thought of seeing what he might see etched across her face. Sympathy. Sorrow. Disappointment.

Han closed his eyes and wavered slightly on his feet. The judge stopped and waited for the lieutenant's full attention to return. When Han's eyes snapped open again, the judge's scowl leered before him.

"I have taken all of these matters into consideration," the judge Advocate imperiously continued, "and I have determined it would be best for all concerned if the Empire dispenses with you as quickly as possible."

 _What does that mean?_ Han thought gloomily. _Just speak plain Basic!_

"You are obviously incompatible with service life. I therefore decree you shall be dishonourably discharged and dismissed from the Imperial Navy forthwith."

Confusion and numbness washed over Solo. This outcome had never occurred to him. He stood there, blinking, listening to his own pained breathing as the judge advocate stepped down from the bench and approached him. Two stormtroopers followed at a respectful distance, halting just behind the judge as he stopped in front of the lieutenant.

The silence in the court room seemed unbearably thick as Solo stood solidly at attention, his gaze fixed over the shoulder of the judge advocate. The elder man's face was indecipherable. At the bottom of his field of vision, Solo caught the movement of the captain's hand moving towards him, towards the rank pips on his chest. He felt the harsh tug as the rank was stripped from his tunic, then the Corellian insignia shoulder flash was also torn away.

Images swamped Han's mind with and unexpected rush: his struggle to obtain a scholarship into the Imperial Academy; the hours of study he dedicate to the academic rigours in order to catch up to his peers and push himself through to prove that he was as worthy of being there as the rest of the cadets; the jubilation he had felt upon graduation, proudly receiving his honours, knowing he was solely responsible for his success; and relishing his triumph on his own as others had shared theirs with their loved ones. Protective barriers slammed up around those images and emotions that lay underneath, cutting them off and forcing him to focus on the one thing which mattered—his freedom.

And Ascher had helped given him that freedom.

As the judge advocate moved away, the stormtroopers grabbed the former lieutenant by each arm and marched him towards a door set in the rear of the court room. Their sudden actions were unexpected and Solo half-stumbled in their grasp, but they propelled him onwards. The door slid open and he was marchedthrough. The court martial was over.

The stormtroopers ushered Solo through the labyrinth of corridors, gloved hands firmly clasped on his biceps. Though Han wished to maintain some sense of dignity, he thought it was wiser to comply than argue with the troopers unnecessarily harsh treatment. Fortuitously the corridors were relatively empty and Soloe only had to contend with a few amused smiles from his former fellow officers.

From the direction they were heading, Han guessed their ultimate destination: the central Security Office, then an escort out the front gates of the compound.

The glassine door to the Security Office _whooshed_ open. A shove to his shoulders sent Solo hard up against the counter running the length of the office. Uniformed security personnel looked up from their workstations as the stormtroopers resumed their positions on either side of Han. Behind the service counter, a sergeant ceased peering over the shoulder of a subordinate and smiled at the troopers wryly. Depositing a cup of kavit on a desk, he sauntered over to the counter. He quickly took in the lack of rank and insignia on Solo's tunic and screwed his face up thoughtfully.

"This the D square?" the sergeant asked bluntly.

 _D_ _2_ _—Dishonorable discharge._ They had known the outcome of the trial before the judge had pronounced sentence.

"Yeah," the trooper replied, prodding at Solo's shoulder, "this is him."

The sergeant reached behind the counter, retrieved Solo's kit bag and slung it over the top. It landed with a thud next to Han's feet. Without looking at the monitor, the sergeant tapped on the interface board to a computer terminal.

He indicated the damage to Solo's eye with a nod of his chin. "What happened to him?"

"Escape attempt," the other trooper answered. "What else do think?"

"Think they'd learn, wouldn't ya?" the sergeant opined urbanely. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. "Well, let's get this over with so we can get rid of this bag of shit." His eyes narrowed and he addressed Solo bluntly. "Ident chip."

Solo extended his right arm, allowing access to the internal identification chip that was lodged beneath the skin on his wrist. The sergeant swiped a scanner across the barely discernible bump. Han watched dispassionately as the terminal identified who he was. His ID details were displayed on the monitor, complete with 2-D portrait, DNA profile and retinal pattern.

"How'd a chu'eller like you pick up the 'Stripe," the sergeant mused to himself as he skimmed over Solo's record.

Han did not respond to the rhetorical question. He was concentrating on getting this over with as quickly as possible, with minimal fuss and hopefully no further physical abuse.

At the terminal the sergeant recorded the annotation _DISHONORABLE DISCHARGE_ , and selected the current central Imperial galactic date. Without further explanation, he grabbed Solo's wrist and pushed a hypo shot into his flesh. The identification chip dissolved into Han's system almost immediately. The hollow in Solo's stomach deepened.

"Take off the tunic."

Solo complied, unbuckling the belt and placing it on the counter, then unfastening the jacket. His ribs protested as he slipped the tunic from his shoulders, placed it next to the belt, added the cap from his head. Now only wearing a black, short-sleeve undershirt, the air-conditioned chill in the air caused him to involuntarily shiver.

Han removed the cord from around his neck which held his external identification disk and moved to place it on the pile of uniform, but he sergeant stopped him with a rough gesture.

"Keep that," the sergeant growled. "We've got no use for it." With a sinister smile, he added, "It'll be something to show the kids what their old man got kicked out of."

As if dazed, Han tucked the disk into his bag, vainly trying to rub warmth into his bare arms. The sergeant was concluding the discharge process, reminding him of his obligation to maintain the integrity of any classified information he might have knowledge of, penalties involved for breaching those obligations, and numerous other orders forbidding interaction with Imperial Forces personnel.

Nodding absently as the sergeant droned on, Solo's instincts suddenly snapped him out of his numb haze. He turned his head to the left, and felt something shatter within his chest.

 _Ascher...no..._

Ascher stood in the open doorway to the Security Office, staring at him, eyes and face grey and strained. Solo's knees weakened and the pulse hammered in his throat. She stood taller and straighter than he remembered, but just as confident and strong, shoulders square and hands held lightly by her sides. Apart from the traces of fatigue on her face, she looked good—fit and well. He noticed the lieutenant commander rank pips. They suited her, somehow made the picture complete.

She tentatively smiled at him and Han turned back towards the desk sergeant.

Ascher approached the counter, and the sergeant and the troopers momentarily ignored Solo to brace themselves to attention.

"Good evening, sir," the sergeant told her. "How can I be of assistance?"

The hair on the back of Solo's neck rose. She was behind him and slightly to the side; he could almost see her in his peripheral vision. Tilting his head away from her, he closed his eyes and tried to stop his hands shaking.

Lieutenant Commander Saxel nodded at the sergeant and smiled briefly in acknowledgment.

"I'd like a few words with Lieutenant Solo."

Her voice was calm and steady. Han cringed, swallowed deeply. _Please...no..._

The sergeant's gaze tracked curiously from the lieutenant commander to the disgraced pilot, a barely noticeable hesitation. "Yes, sir."

With a movement of his head, the sergeant indicated to the stormtroopers that they should step aside. The troopers adjusted their weapons and obeyed, moving off to a discreet distance while the sergeant pulled away from the counter.

Watching Han intently, Ascher waited until she had a modicum of privacy before moving up beside him. Gaze locked forward, his arms rested on the counter as he refused to acknowledge her. Hips tilted forward slightly, his stance attempted to portray casual indifference but only accentuated the weight loss he ad experienced during his imprisonment. Despite this, she noticed his chest and shoulders had broadened over the last Standard year or so since she had seen him, and his ears no longer seemed to stick out from his head like jug handles. She studied his strong profile: the broad line of forehead and straight nose; full lips resting above a solid chin; the acute angle of jaw; the prominent larynx on a neck she could only describe as 'kissable'. The boyish good looks had matured into brooding, handsome features. Unfortunately, it appeared his temperament hadn't changed.

"What happened, Han?" Ascher asked simply.

Eyes staring ahead blankly, his fingers clutched into fists. "You were there," Solo said quietly. "You heard."

Ascher repressed a sigh. With great patience, she tried to keep the lecturing tone from her voice. "I want to hear it from you. I want to understand."

His knuckles whitened as his grip increased. A muscle twitched in his cheek. "I'm not justifying myself to you. It's happened. Live with it."

The warm touch of her hand on his forearm was consoling, sympathetic and repellent. Solo flinched from her, turned his head towards her so violently that the stormtroopers brought their rifles up to train on him. His eyes were dark and dangerous, the bruising across his eyelid, socket and cheek intensifying his glare.

"Don't," he warned.

A gesture from Ascher restrained the sergeant who had briskly returned to his position at the counter.

"It's all right, sergeant," she told him, looking into Solo's sullen eyes, trying to see the gold flecks she had once known.

Han had never been good at out-staring Ascher, so he didn't even pretend to try and quickly dropped his gaze. Trying to settle his composure, he resumed his detached pose.

Ascher swallowed the lump from her throat. "I'm finished here," she told the sergeant. "Thank you." She paused for a moment. "Clear skies, Wingman," she whispered, then turned and left the office.

Solo listened to the receding clack of Ascher's boot as she marched down the corridor, then the door slid shut and there was only the droning sound of the sergeant's monotonous voice as the discharge procedures concluded. With a ragged sigh, Han released his fists.

Before Solo realised what was happening, the stormtroopers were forcibly marching him across the naval compound in the cool twilight air. The blaster rifle which caught him in the back, combined with the kick to the seat of his trousers, sent him reeling out between the open security gates. He landed heavily on his injured side and gasped in pain. The blaster rifles aimed at him forced him to his feet.

"Get moving, citizen," one of the troopers ordered.

Wiping a hand across his bleeding mouth, Han snatched up his kit bag and moved off into the Corellian night without looking back.

Han couldn't believe it had all happened so quickly and efficiently, without ceremony or fuss. It seemed unlike the Imperial Navy to process anything so fast. Maybe if he had known it was that simple to leave, he would have rescued an enslaved Wookiee earlier.

A fresh breeze tugged at his shirt as he rushed to put some distance between himself and the naval compound, just in case someone changed their mind. The empty road went in only one direction, linking the Imperial Naval compound to Coronet, so that was where he would go. There was no other choice.

Solo dug into the bag as he walked along and pulled on his flight jacket as protection against the wind, ripping off the patches and insignia as he continued down the road. He had traversed this road on numerous occasions as a teenager when he'd headed out to the compound to watch the naval ships come in, so he knew it was about a ten kilometre hike to the outskirts of the city. Providing he kept up this pace and his ribs didn't complain too much, he should be there in under two hours.

Solo shivered as the hair on the back of his neck rose and he glanced around. He had a terrible feeling somebody was following him, as if he was being stalked. He stopped and slowly scanned the landscape. The first moon was already full in the early evening sky and it lit up the area for a good hundred metres around him. Both the road and the clipped grass plain on either side were devoid of any activity, human or otherwise. Insects chirped over the low howl of the wind, and in the distance the lights of Coronet reflected off the night sky.

 _Relax,_ he chided himself. _You're just a bit jittery after being locked up for a while._

Han Solo closed his jacket to the wind and moved towards the light.


	13. Chapter 13

**LIFE DEBT**

by CorellianBlue

(first published 1998, updated 2015)

 _Part XIII_

The beer may have been tepid but it was robustly spiced, Corellian and traditionally served in a handled glass mug. The golden liquid slipped down Solo's throat as he tilted the mug to his mouth, inhaling the familiar tang of the rich aroma, his eyes closing almost reverentially. He gulped deeply at the beer, its refreshing qualities seeping through his body, dulling the ache in his ribs and suspending the disquieting thoughts lingering in his head. The peppery aftertaste tingled on his tongue as he returned the mug to the table and idly scraped the froth from the lip of the mug with his forefinger. His gaze flicking coolly around the room from under dark brows.

Furnished with maroon colored booths and complementary red-grey carpet, the tavern was neat and comfortable. A green lexoplast-topped bar ran along the wall farthest from the booth Han had selected, an assortment of bottles, decanters, taps and advertising material its only form of decoration. Despite the dim lighting and warren-like alcoves and booths, the atmosphere suggested this mix of bar and dinner, _The Loaded Star_ , was well-cared for and lived in.

Solo had chosen the tavern because it was on the outskirts of Coronet, it had seemed relatively quiet compared to other bars, and a neatly handwritten sign out the front proclaimed it offered home-cooked meals. He hadn't thought too much about why the sign had sealed his decision to enter. Perhaps it was because he had been unable to recall what a home-cooked meal tasted like and since this _was_ 'home', the _Star_ had seemed as good a place as any to grab a meal and a drink.

The patrons, a sparse collection of humans and near-humans, lounged casually at the booths and tables. Roughly-hewn and soiled work clothes, coveralls, jackets and faces suggested many of them had popped in for a drink on their way home from work. Not surprisingly for Corellia, there were few females amongst the ranks trade workers. The more conspicuous of these women, the provocatively clad 'night ladies', hovered unsuccessfully around the men like insects, soliciting not much more than the occasional drink.

Apart from his years at the Academy and with the Imperial Navy, Solo had spent most of his life in the fraternity of people like these. Under a different set of circumstances he might have been comfortable in their company, however the hush which had fallen over the patrons and the watchful gazes he had received upon entering the tavern had jarred his sense.

Han had ordered a meal and collected a beer from the droid-free bar, before sinking to the rear of the room, mindful of the wary eyes following his every movement. He knew it was the military cut of his trousers and his closely cropped hair which had attracted their attention, not simply the fact he was a solitary stranger with a swollen eye and cut lip. There had been more than one reason why the Navy had transformed back into a military officer prior to the court martial—he had been distinctly branded, a final parting reminder to himself and all who saw him of who and what he no longer was.

When it became obvious that he posed no threat, the patrons had returned to their drinks and conversations. Mumbled chattering and laughter drifted through the humid air, discussions of the work day, good-natured debates about the latest model speeders and air cars, smashball scores and snatches of free traders' jargon. Surrounding this subdued din, the nasal commentary of a smashball game played from the holovid box located above the bar.

For Solo, it all felt distantly familiar, like the remnants of a childhood dream.

Wincing with every breath, Han reached under his thin shirt and ran his fingers across his ribs. Even his hesitant survey generated splinters of pain, but he determined they weren't cracked as he had originally thought. He ruefully thought that the bruises would be impressive, almost as impressive as those bruises that elicited sympathy from girls after a particularly nasty smashball game.

Han swallowed another mouthful of the ale, hoping to ease the discomfort but he only succeeded in catching the corner of his split mouth of the edge of the glass. He swore under his breath and scratched the crust of blood away as he recalled the stormtroopers who had levied a physical punishment on him. _Bastards._

He stared at the glass in front of him, stroked the moisture from its dimpled surface. A chill prickled the hair on the back of his neck and he shrugged his jacket higher up his shoulders.

This is what he wanted, wasn't it? He wanted _out_ of the Navy. Well, this was out.

The flash of a hand ripping the rank pips from his chest speared through his mind. He closed his defensively eyes, swamping the image from his thoughts as he drank deeply from the mug again. He blinked an alcoholic fuzz from his vision. He needed a plan. Needed to consider his capabilities, assets and opportunities, then formulate a strategy for his next move.

He could fly. He could ride a swoop. He knew basic starship maintenance. He had been surprised to find a chit for couple of hundred credits stuffed in his kit bag, so he could survive for a few weeks, or even months, on that if necessary.

He smiled grimly at his mental checklist.

The Imperial Navy had provided his rations and quarters since he'd been in the Academy, but it had barely provided him with more than that. Finding the credits in his kit bag had been an unexpected windfall. Han had only briefly wondered where the money had come from—maybe it was his friend, Braddon. Or even Ascher. _Aaahh, to hell with it_ —it was there and he'd use it.

The few credits the Empire paid in salary he had frittered away, on exactly _what_ he couldn't say. Of course, the Imperial Navy didn't offer severance pay, especially following a dishonorable discharge.

 _Dishonourable discharge._ Solo coughed once, as if the words had lodged in his throat.

No. He wouldn't think about it. Not now. Not ever.

Regrets and grief were a sure way to push you under. The idea was to turn their negative energy in on themselves and drown them in their own oppressive weight.

He was a new person now. He had to create a new identity. The person who had been an Imperial pilot—Lieutenant Han Solo—no longer existed. Things were now simpler and less complicated. Now he was just Han Solo, the way it probably should have been from the start. He had been Han Solo before; he could be Han Solo again.

There was nothing about the Navy he regretted leaving, nothing he would miss… except for the exhilaration of flying.

Solo's hands unconsciously cramped into fists and he could almost feel the touch of a control stick against his palms and fingers, feel the power surging into his body as he became one with the ship.

"You want some company, honey?"

The woman took a step backwards at the sharp stare Solo aimed at her; even in the shadows his eyes burned fiercely. She masked her sudden discomfort with a wide smile and alluringly toyed with the lock of platinum blond hair that draped across her shoulder. Unlike some of the night ladies Solo had seen in his days, this one had applied her makeup with unusual discretion and her skin-tight silver jumpsuit seemed tame in comparison with what her colleagues wore. She was at least 10 years older than he was, and attractive in an athletic kind of way he found appealing. But he'd never had the need or compulsion to purchase the services of a female for the night, and the last thing he felt like was 'company' from anyone, let alone the kind he had to pay for. Her smile, though, seemed genuine, and her face showed a kindness and compassion she gave freely and often. His head still half-turned away from her, Han softened his eyes, grimaced apologetically and shook his head.

The woman's lips twitched and her eyebrows raised knowingly. "Broken heart?"

Before he could reply, she was sliding onto the seat next to him, pushing up against his bruised side so that he physically cringed at her touch.

"Wanna tell me about it, sugar?" She rested her arm against his shoulder, wrapped her other arm across the front of his waist and whispered in his ear, "'Cos I'm a good listener. The best there is. The best you'll ever have."

Not wanting to cause a scene, Han tried to slip from her embrace, but she had her fingers firmly entwined within the belt loops of his trousers. He must have looked like an easy target.

"Thanks for the offer, sweetheart," he told her firmly, resolutely staring at his glass. "But I'm on my own and that's the way I like it."

"Come on," she encouraged. "Little bit of fun can't hurt. Might even help you forget whatever it is that won't let you go."

If he was that easy to read then he _was_ an easy target. And easy targets usually didn't last very long in the galaxy. _Things have to change,_ he decided.

The woman moved her hand up from his shoulder, dragged her fingers across his scalp. Her long nails crackled through his short hair and she grinned at him cheekily.

"You're from the naval compound, aren't you? I didn't think you boys were allowed into places like this."

 _Things definitely have to change._ For the second time that night, Han realised he would have to do something about his appearance if he wanted to blend in, survive. One of the things would be to grow his hair. He'd worn it longer as a kid. So long in fact, he recalled with a small smirk, it had flopped in to his eyes with a frequency and insolence which had annoyed most adults.

And the flight jacket. That he could easily shuck without a second thought. But the uniform trousers...he had _earned_ that damn 'Stripe. No one could take it away from him, no matter how many trials he went through. There was no way he'd willingly give it up.

"I'm not in the Navy," he muttered at the table.

"I'll bet you know some mighty fine manoeuvres, though."

The hand at his belt tugged teasingly at the buckle, pressed against his stomach and he squirmed slightly as her pursed lips blew warm breath into his ear. He breathed in her exotic fragrance, closed his eyes with a shuddering sigh. It would all be so easy just to accept her caresses and attention, to seek solace in her arms and burn his anger and despair in a burst of passion. But when it was over, she would return to her place at the bar and he to his booth, his wallet many credits lighter than before. And nothing else would have changed.

"For you, baby, I'll even throw in a discount."

He turned his face fully towards her for the first time and her mouth opened with concern when she saw his bruised eye. Her hand left his waist and traced the outline of the purplish swelling. Han flinched and pulled his head away, but her hand remained on his cheek.

"I'm not much fun at the moment, sweetheart," he softly explained to her.

"You should have that eye looked at. Haven't you heard of a medpac before?" A lecturing tone had replaced her lilting timbre, and for a moment Han felt like a younger brother being chastised by his older, wiser sister. Then her eyes narrowed. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

The corner of Solo's mouth lifted up wryly. "No more than usual."

Her eyes searched his face intently, whether with genuine philanthropy or business acumen Han couldn't tell. It was more than obvious that he was a 'no sale'.

Wanting to end this transaction as quickly as possible, he removed her hand from his face and pulled away from her.

"Look me up in a few days," he suggested. "When I'm feeling up to it. I promise to talk to you all night." He gave her a lopsided smile to show it was nothing personal.

The smile she returned was tinged with regret, but she nodded and slid out from the booth. "I'll keep you to that promise, handsome. And I may even waive my fee," she added with a flirtatious wink.

A disapproving glare from the middle-aged manager who had arrived with Han's meal hastened the departure of the other women. The elder woman frowned at Han as she placed a large bowl of stew, a plate of thick bread and cutlery on the table.

"I try not to encourage them," she told him. "And I'd appreciate if you'd do the same."

Not wanting any more trouble or concerns than he already had, Solo nodded wearily as he picked up a fork. The spicy aroma of meat, tubers and vegetables made him realise how hungry he was, and he commenced eating while the woman still stood before him.

The woman tucked her greying hair behind her ears, watching for Han's reaction to his first mouthful of stew. Han smiled as he relished the piquant flavor, restricting himself to chewing the succulent chunks of meat and vegetables at a refrained pace rather than bolting the meal down as his stomach requested. Reaching for a piece of bread, Han looked up from the bowl to see a self-satisfied smile light the woman's face. She was probably the cook as well.

The woman collected his near-empty glass. "Would you like another?"

Han smiled gratefully around a mouthful of stew and bread. "Thanks."

She returned with a mug of ale for him and departed with a pleasant smile. Han relaxed back into his seat as he ate his meal, quenching his thirst with gulps of ale and mopping up the gravy with the sweet, spongy bread.

The smashball game had finished and the holovid now played a regional news broadcast. A few of the patrons turned in their seats to watch a report on Imperial troops successfully quashing a rebellious uprising on some backwater planet that had previously resisted 'requests' to join the Empire. Heads looked studiously elsewhere at the next report detailing the smashing of a spice smuggling operation.

Solo occasionally glanced up at the holovid box. He had never been particularly interested in holovid programs, especially news broadcasts, however his gaze was attracted to the screen when the shot returned to the presenter. The Imperial Navy crest was superimposed behind the presenter's shoulder.

The blandly handsome human stared down the lens of the camera and pursed his lips. "In a media release supplied by the Imperial Navy Information Bureau, a naval pilot of Corellian extraction, who had been in custody since he illegally released a recognised slave species, underwent court martial at the Coronet Naval Facility today."

Han's stomach dropped and the fork slipped from his fingers. It had never occurred to him his trial would be officially released to the media, but he guessed this was a way to use his punishment as an example to a frequently liberal and questioning Corellian population.

Han closed his eyes, silently willing this to be all a bad dream. But the presenter continued, his voice loud and strident in the unnaturally quiet tavern.

"The naval lieutenant, who cannot be named for security reasons, was convicted of numerous charges arising from the release of a Wookiee indentured to the Imperial Survey and Engineering Corps. These charges included not only the release of the Wookiee, but also insubordination, assault on a superior officer and possession of glitterstim spice."

Someone sniggered, made a comment which generated a ripple of laughter throughout the room.

"The lieutenant, who despite having received the renowned military commendation, the Corellian Bloodstripe,"—Han ran a hand down the seam of his trousers—"was dishonourably discharged from the Navy. A Naval spokesman commented that the Imperial Navy would not tolerate officers who displayed such blatant disloyalty to the Emperor and utter contempt for the common goals of all citizens of the Empire. The Office of the Regional Governor has supported the Navy's stand and has advised all Corellians to be wary of fellow citizens harbouring attitudes that threaten to upset the stability and harmony of the Galactic Empire. Dutiful citizens should report such recalcitrant individuals to their local constabulary." The presenter's stoic face broke into a smile. "And we'll be back after these service announcements."

An advertisement for a cooking appliance blared from the holovid, but Han couldn't hear it. He sat hunched down in the booth, head lowered, staring into the remains of the stew, hands pressed against his forehead. They had made him sound like a dangerous criminal, not a simple-minded pilot whose conscience had gotten the better of him. At least they hadn't named him or shown a holo of his face.

 _Pull yourself together, Solo,_ he chastised himself. _Tomorrow it'll all be yesterday's news._

Around him, voices rang with laughter and glee as they discussed the absurdity of the report.

"What sort of a glaiket would release a Wookiee?" someone asked incredulously.

"What sort of a glaiket would join the Navy in the first place?" came the rejoinder.

The raucous laughter echoed mockingly around Han. His forehead still resting on one hand, he prodded a chunk of meat with the fork.

The laughter rounded out and he vaguely heard another voice mumble, "Hey, that guy who came in earlier—"

He couldn't hear the rest of the conversation; his pulse and breathing filled his ears, and his stomach clenched as tightly as jaw.

Solo slowly lowered his fork and looked up from the bowl. He could make out the features of the men seated at the bar who had turned in his direction, openly scanning the rear booths and tables for him. Han sat there impassively, waiting for one of them to meet his gaze. Somehow his hazel eyes hardened further as a glimmer of recognition and discovery passed over the faces of the men who found where he was sitting. It was just as well he had lost his appetite.

Breathing heavily through his nose, Solo stood up from his seat and slung the kit bag over his shoulder. He paused to swipe the glass up from the table and down the frothy dregs in a defiant mouthful. Then he moved towards the bar and the men who were furtively pointing at him and whispering to each other.

The eyes of the other patrons widened with a mixture of alarm and expectation as Solo approached the bar, his head and eyes held resolutely level and forward. The silver-clad night lady brushed past him as he crossed the floor, ignoring her suggestive pout and playful caress on the seat of his trousers. A few of the men squirmed at his relentless stare as he moved up to the bar tender and asked to settle his tab. His head swivelled stiffly, droid-like, as his eyes remained locked on the faces of the men. They remained silent while he handed the credits to the bar tender and departed the tavern.

Solo gasped as the cold night air filled his lungs, ribs aching at the sudden inhalation, but he gratefully gulped at the air, a wave of relief displacing his sudden claustrophobia. He readjusted his grip on the kit bag, hands shaking. Angrily jamming his free hand into a jacket pocket, he glanced each way down the street. It was late and the other moon had risen with its brother, the twin moonslight casting double shadows against the buildings and pavement. The lateness of the hour and locality of this particular street meant it was not unusual for it be deserted. The windows looking out onto the street had long ago had their privacy blinds drawn and opaque screenings activated.

 _Centre of town,_ Han thought. _Somewhere to sleep._ He touched the credit chit in his pocket. _Have to pass on room service, though._ He chuckled to himself self-deprecatingly. _As if..._

His swollen eye was fully closed now, but Han could have been blind and he still would have been able to find his way on the streets of Coronet. He moved off to his right without further thought, instinctively knowing where best to find accommodation to suit his needs.

His head felt numb and stuffy, even a little dizzy, and a weariness settled in his bones. He shook his head to clear it, vaguely thinking he probably shouldn't have had a drink if he was suffering from concussion. _What? Something else I shouldn't have done?_

He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, ignored the bitter nausea washing over him, and crossed the street. He continued on, only dimly aware of his surroundings. His kit bag thumped heavily against his back and shoulder; its weight had increased ten-fold in the past few minutes.

Solo came to a swaying halt and rubbed at his good eye. Only then did he notice the solidly-built human who was slowly approaching from down the street in front of him. A shiver crept up Solo's spine. Without even looking, he knew there was a second larger male closing in on him from behind. Apart from the other two men, the street was empty. In the distance, a canoid barked.

Almost in resignation, Han leaned against the wall of a building for support. How could he have been so stupid to have walked into a situation like this? He was street-wise enough to understand the simplicity of the operation—two hoods working together; selecting him as a target, either as he stumbled from the tavern or when he was inside; one of them tailing him as the other slipped down a side street and raced ahead of him, to then come back down the road to tackle him front on. Mind-boringly simple. But it had worked on him. He could blame it on his injuries, or the alcohol, or both, but it didn't matter. He had obviously been out of the neighborhood too long.

Solo knew he had only two options. He could try making a run for it, but from the way he was feeling he didn't like his chances of even being able to cross the street let alone tear off like a spooked jalucka. Or he could stand his ground and fight it out.

He tightened his grip on his kit bag. There was nothing inside it to offer bluff or protection, but with a good swing it might be enough to catch one of his adversaries off guard.

 _Who're you kidding, Solo?_

All he needed was for one of the men to have a vibroblade or blaster or worse and all his worries would be over. The odds of successfully surviving this encounter were rapidly diminishing.

Solo pushed himself away from the wall as he turned side on to the men so he could see both of them with only needing to pan his head slightly. The hoods were typical for this side of town—burly, thick-necked and unkempt. The one to the left smiled as he approached Han, his teeth gleaming in the moonslight. Han returned the broad smile and opened his free hand to show he was unarmed.

 _Don't let 'em take you without a fight._

His heart pounded in his chest and he glanced at the ugly human to his right. Ugly nodded at Smiley, his partner, then turned to Han and took great relish in unsheathing a vibroblade from his coat. The blade hummed in the still night air, slicing through the condensation billowing from Ugly's mouth.

 _I'm dead meat._

Hypnotised by the vibrating dagger and the manic glee creasing its owner's face, Solo missed the movement of Smiley's fist until it slammed into his jaw. Staggering under the impact, the bag slipped from Han's grasp and he literally walked into the two punches driven in quick succession into his stomach. He crumpled over and pitched forward onto the ground, his head grazing against the hard surface as his hands barely broke his fall. The initial rush of adrenalin which had pushed him on drained away and he struggled to maintain consciousness, knowing it was the only thing standing between himself and certain death.

With a few mumbles and grunts, the two hoods snatched up the kit bag and eagerly sorted through its contents. One of them noticed Han pushing himself up on his knees, most of his weight still resting forward on the shoulder leaning against the ground. A worn boot lashed savagely into Solo's side and he cried out as new bruises overlapped old swelling. His stomach heaved and he vomited across the cold pavement.

"Check his jacket."

Rough hands hauled Solo up as he coughed up the last of the bile, turned him over and rummaged through his jacket pockets. His hands and feet tingled with cold and sheets of blackness cut across his vision. He tried to focus on his attackers— _...think... something..._ _do..._ _something..._ —but he had trouble keeping his head from lolling to the side. Spittle trailed from his mouth and his eyes rolled back in their sockets as he caught a glimpse of the vibroblade flashing towards his throat.

 _Dying…. in your own…. puke,_ Han thought dully. _Da…._

Then a howling wind filled his ears and the night engulfed him.


	14. Chapter 14

**LIFE DEBT**

by CorellianBlue

(first published 1998, updated 2015)

 _Part XIV_

Even without opening his eyes, Han knew someone was watching him. He had been awake for a few minutes, surfacing from a thick, hazy sleep. Despite the fog filling his head and body, his instincts told him he was not alone so he kept his eyes shut as he tried to take stock of his situation.

He was lying stretched out on a bunk, dressed only in his shorts with a thermal blanket pulled up over his bare chest. Although his body felt numb and distant, as if it was detached from his conscious self, an inner warmth seemed to radiate from somewhere deep within—either his body or his mind, he couldn't decide which. The soothing coolness of fragrant compresses caressed his forehead, eye and ribs. The bruising and swelling had significantly receded, though twinges of pain and a stiffness in his side continued to remind him of his injuries.

A weariness plagued him, enticing him to drift back to sleep, and for a moment he let the traces of exhaustion ensnare him again and he dozed for a while, his mind tumbling with images of the past few weeks: the release of the Wookiee; his imprisonment; the court martial; his last meal—the recollection of the violent attack on him in the street hit as sharp as any blow and he jerked back to consciousness, his legs twitching involuntarily. He stifled a cry as the sudden movement tensed tender bone and muscle.

He remembered the hoods turning him over, searching him for credits, the vibroblade humming above his bare throat, and…by rights he should be dead by now.

Eyes still closed and listening to his surrounds, he discerned the environmental control systems of a small ship, the distinctive resonant hum of a freighter's hull, and the whine of other secondary systems as they idled in standby. The ship was still in a planetary docking bay.

The sounds of the ship were muffled and he sensed a block of motionless air around him, so he figured the bunk he lay on was in a small cubicle, probably a cabin. Fresh forest scents of wood, leaves and herbs filled his nostrils, purling across his bare skin. The ambient light in the cabin had been dimmed and it barely passed through his eyelids or under his eyelashes. But there was definitely someone watching him. They were seated off to his right. He could almost feel the way their body displaced the air in the cabin. And yet their breathing pattern was so deep and slow, they hardly made a noise. Han thought it was almost as if they were meditating.

As whoever it was had obviously tended to his wounds, the young man figured he didn't have much to lose by opening his eyes. That was unless they fixed him up only to beat him up some more. He knew that didn't make sense, but there were many things in the galaxy that didn't make sense—his current predicament was testimony enough to that maxim.

Han decided he felt safer feigning sleep. He had learnt long ago it was preferable to gain as much information as possible before displaying his hand. So he lay there silently, listening, struggling to attune his senses to his surroundings, and carried along by the calming warmth and aromas.

When Han awoke again, the cabin was dark, almost pitch black, and he was alone. Annoyed with himself for falling asleep in a potentially dangerous situation, he quickly braced himself up on his elbows, then promptly slid down again as the blood rushed from his head.

Groggily, he touched the side of his head and found the compresses had been removed from his eye and forehead. His fingers tentatively explored his side and discovered the compress which had been there had been replaced with a firm bandage to support his healing ribs. He lay still on the bunk as it conformed to the contours of his body, the unfamiliar touch of natural fibre bedclothes soft against his skin. He breathed in deeply, inhaling the forest scents that now emanated from his skin and hair. He pushed a hand through his damp, slicked back hair and became aware that not only was he clean, he was also naked.

 _Patched up and bathed as well,_ he considered. _I guess they don't do that if they're planning on hurting you some more later._

With that revelation firm in his mind, Han's anxiety decreased to a more manageable level. Yet he still wanted to know where he was. He blindly batted a hand around to find any sort of a switch which might help shed more light on the situation. He even unsuccessfully mumbled 'lights' to the silent bulkheads for a few times before pulling the textured weave of the blanket up over his chest and settling his shoulders deep into the soft mattress. He could try stumbling around in the dark for a light switch, but the idea of recuperating sleep seemed more appealing.

Nimble hands released the pliant bandage, slid it down his chest. Rising from a deep, restful sleep, Han grimaced as the delicate fingers gently massaged a cool salve into his bruised side, then re-fixed the bandage. He groaned and turned his head slightly as fingers traced more salve across his grazed forehead and bruised eye socket.

Han's eyes flickered open just as the last fingertip slipped across his eyelid. His gaze met a pair of smoky dark eyes twinkling with good humour and greeting, held him tenderly in their embrace. Whatever traces of apprehension he had quickly disappeared.

"Good evening," a soft, accented voice said. Basic was not the person's first language.

Han tried to reply but his mouth was dry and his voice shrank within his throat. He raised his shoulders as a ceramic mug of water was pressed to his lips, and drank from it gratefully. The water had a refreshing acidic tang to it.

"Thanks," he muttered as he lowered himself back on to the pillow.

The eyes smiled and Han's gaze dropped to the high cheekbones, upturned nose, the quirk of lips, all set against sorrel-tinted skin and framed by deeper coloured hair gathered in a single plaited strand. The girl was beautiful in a very natural, unsophisticated way. And she was barely into her teens.

Quickly pulling the blanket back across his nakedness, Han felt his cheeks blush at his belated modesty. The girl chuckled at his actions as she set the mug in a recess near the head of the bunk. Han foolishly realised that she had obviously seem him naked for some time before he awoke. Kest, she may even have _bathed_ him.

She touched his hair in an affectionate gesture, her eyes crinkling with a suggestion of wisdom which made Han doubt his original estimation of her age.

"Corellians have simple view of galaxy," she chided in stilted Basic.

Han shrugged a shoulder. "Not all Corellians," he explained. "But this one does."

The girl smiled again as she adjusted her position on the bunk next to him. Even through the blanket, Han could feel the warmth radiating from her.

"In your terms," she told him, "I am 15 Standard aged years. You are first male human I study up close."

She grinned at him cheekily and his stomach dropped. He wondered just how much homework she'd managed to cram in. He hated the idea of being vulnerable—literally naked—before anyone, especially a young girl swept along by pubescent urges.

"Many my age have seen more, done more than I. Many have not, as well." As she spoke, she wiped the remains of the salve into her palms and resealed a ceramic container. "Different chances. Different experiences. Different views of life."

Eyes narrowed, Han glanced around the cabin and muttered, "Obviously."

The cabin did not look like any he had seen on an operational starship. Although it was about the size of a crew member's quarters on any number of small freighters, soft furnishings and tapestries covered the bulkheads and deck so that it was difficult to tell this was indeed a cabin. The contrasting soft pastel colors and bold geometric shapes of the materials, the use of herbs and ointments for healing, and the hand-woven shirt and pants the girl wore all suggested she belonged to a race or culture that could be described as spiritual or mystical. _Or primitive,_ Han thought with a wry smile.

When his gaze returned to hers, he noticed she was watching him with those eyes that made her seemed older than even he was. She had followed the play of thought across his face, and her lips pursed as if inviting, or even daring, him to pass judgment on her lifestyle. For once he ignored his basic urges and kept his mouth shut and his opinion to himself.

"You are feeling better," the girl stated, not asked.

"Uh, yeah. Much," Han replied, attempting to make some sense of recent events. He gingerly sat up so he could speak to her at eye level. "Thanks for patching me up. But how did I get here?"

"Your gratitude is not required," she said openly. She covered the back of his hand with her palm. "It is we who thank you, Han Solo."

Han frowned. 'We' meant there was more than just the girl. And they knew his name, so they had his identification disk. Did 'they' have his credits too? What else did 'they' know about him? And what had _he_ done to warrant their thanks?

"Why thank me?" He had a bad feeling about this. "What do you mean? I ain't done nothing."

The girl tilted her head. "You are hungry and it is time for your last meal." His eyebrows raised in concern and she added reassuringly, "Your last of meal of day, Han Solo. Come eat with us and things will become clear."

She gestured to a chair which his kit bag and boots stood by, and his clothes had been neatly hung across the back. He wondered what his chances were of finding his credits still inside his jacket.

She grinned at him mischievously and began removing the blanket from his waist. "Shall I help you dress?"

"No-no." He pulled the blanket back from her teasing grasp. "I can manage."

Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she stood up and moved towards the hatch. "I will respect your wishes and wait for you outside."

As the girl lithely slipped through the hatchway, he called out to her, "Hey, what's your name?"

She stopped and turned back to him, obviously pleased he had asked her such a personal question. "I am Tiel, daughter of Tsaara and Keral.

"Well, Tiel, I…thanks for looking after me."

She nodded in acknowledgment as the hatch slid shut and called out, "It was very educational, Han Solo."

"I bet," he mumbled under his breath.

Han waited a few moments to see if he would be disturbed before pushing himself off the bunk. He wavered slightly on his feet, more from lack of practice than from the effects of his injuries. It didn't take him long to gather his bearings. His ribs only ached when he moved too quickly, the cut on the corner of his mouth had completely healed, and he could even see out of his bruised eye. All things considered, he decided he was in pretty good shape for a guy who had had the k'ala beat out of him.

He snatched up his jacket with renewed vigour and found his ID and credits safely tucked away inside an internal pocket, exactly where he'd left them. This was getting decidedly weird. People he didn't know had picked him up off the street, probably saving him from a grisly death in the process, tended to his injuries, hadn't robbed him blind, and to top it all off they wanted to thank him for doing _something_ he didn't even know that he'd done.

Grabbing his black undershirt, he glanced around the cabin again, searching for some piece to the puzzle which might give him a clue as to what the hell was going on. As he pulled the shirt over his head, he smelt the crisp fragrance of fruit and soap. They'd laundered his clothes. Kest, they had even polished his boots!

Slowly shaking his head in wonder, Han finished dressing. _Probably wound up with some bunch of do-gooding religious types, out to save the galaxy's homeless souls._

After tugging on his boots, Han toed the kit bag closer to the chair he now sat on. He wanted to make certain what few possessions he had were still inside. With grim satisfaction he noted the bag was unfastened.

 _Not the perfect hosts after all, huh?_

Swearing to himself and wondering what items had been touched or souvenired, he pulled the bag open—and froze. His stomach clenched as though hit by an unseen fist. Nestled inside his holster was a custom-made heavy blaster pistol. Not just _any_ custom-made blaster, but _his_ DL-44.

Han pulled the weapon out into the light, instantly identifying the way it balanced in his hand, and examined it carefully. The filed down sight blade; the rear-fitted macroscope; the nick in the butt where he'd used it to open a bottle of contraband ale in his cabin. It was definitely his blaster. The blaster he had given to the Wookiee.

His realisation that the Wookiee _had_ to be involved in all of this overwhelmed the comfort of his weapon. How else would 'they' have come across his blaster and linked it to some idiot having the shit beat out of him in the street?

 _If that Wookiee is somehow mixed up in all of this, I might just have to kill him myself._

Suddenly furious, Han shrugged his jacket on and settled the blaster inside so it hung between the armhole and the internal pocket. That Wookiee had caused him enough aggravation to last a life time. Han had thought—hoped—he'd seen the last of the hairy beast. What was he doing now sticking his muzzle into Han's business?

Han's muscles tensed, anticipating the moment of flight or fight. At least he was in better condition to make a rational decision than he had been when he'd been confronted by the hoods in the street.

He fastened the front of his jacket, leaving the top open slightly so he could access his blaster. Okay, so he'd play dumb, go along with this little charade until he knew exactly what was going on, whether to stand and fight or to release docking tackle and haul jets.

Through the jacket, he patted the blaster against the side of his chest. Although the weapon sat at a precarious angle, it was reasonably well hidden. The consoling touch of the DL-44's cold metal instilled a strength and confidence within him that had been missing since his imprisonment. If nothing else, it felt like a basic element of himself had been restored. Perhaps, he thought grudgingly, he should thank someone—maybe even the Wookiee—for that much.

Han took a few moments to compose himself, relax his jaw and loosen his shoulders, before moving towards the hatch, his senses alert with anticipation. He found the girl, Tiel, waiting for him outside the cabin, casually leaning her slender frame against the bulkhead. She cast a critical eye over him, her gaze moving down the length of his rangy body. If she knew he was armed, she gave no indication.

"I think," Tiel told him seriously, "I like you better with no clothes, Han Solo."

Her eyes gleamed with wicked good-humour and he again doubted their six-year age difference. Ignoring her suggestive leer, he tucked his hands into his jacket pockets. The girl might be fun in a few more years, but right now she was definitely a little on the young side for him.

"Drop the formalities," he suggested. "I think we've been intimate enough for you to call me Han."

"All right, _Han_ ," she softly stressed his name. "Please follow this way."

As she led him down the gently curved access way, Han's eyes roamed over the bulkheads and deck, searching for any information that could be of use. At least he had guessed right about the ship being a freighter. From its general layout, condition and age, he figured he was on a Corellian Engineering Corporation YT series stock freighter. YT series freighters were a reliable form of light transport and as common as dirt in these parts of the galaxy.

"So," he asked as casually as he possibly could, his gaze shifting surreptitiously, "is this a regular occurrence around here? Picking up strange men, fixing their cuts and bruises."

Tiel barely glanced at him as she smirked and continued down the corridor.

"Give them a bed for the night—"

"Two nights," Tiel interrupted. "You have been here a night, a day, another night, and today."

That news sobered him. Apart from the times he had briefly awoken, he'd been out cold for two days. _That must've been some concussion._

"And you are not _that_ strange," Tiel added slyly.

Han smiled stiffly and continued unabated. "Look, are you gonna tell me what happened or—"

Tiel suddenly whipped around towards him "It is not my place to speak with you at great lengths about these matters," she told him sternly. "I am healer. I have cared for you, as is my duty. You are well. I have no more to offer you." She averted her eyes and folded her arms across her chest.

Han missed the emotions that strained her face as he focused on what she had told him. She was the one who had tended to his wounds, so she had most likely bathed him as well. He hoped _that_ particular task hadn't been provided her with too much education.

"Tsaara will explain," Tiel said quietly. "Tsaara is our planner and talker. She has much patience for such things."

It sounded as though the culture Tiel belonged to accorded distinct responsibilities to individuals based on their strengths. Tiel was the healer, Tsaara the leader.

"What does..."—Han hunted for the name of the other parent Tiel had mentioned—"Keral do?"

"Keral is our pilot. Like you."

Han nearly stopped in his tracks. These people knew far too much about himself. The weight of the blaster against his chest now made him question his original assumptions. Maybe the Wookiee wasn't the key to this at all. Maybe there was Imperial involvement as well. Maybe there was a clandestine agency designed to keep track of him, to ensure he didn't become a dissident or rebel. Maybe they were tasked with covertly killing him without sullying the reputation of the Navy.

 _Don't go neurotic, Solo,_ he chastised himself sharply. _Watch. Wait._

To the right, they passed an open hatchway from which a ramp extended down into a brightly lit docking bay. Han only caught a glimpse of the fusion-formed ground of the bay before they moved into the freighter's recreation area. His attention was immediately attracted to a woman who stood facing them on the far side of the compartment. She was as tall as himself, slender and dressed in similar fashion to Tiel. Her hair and features suggested she was a relative of Tiel—Tsaara, her mother, Han guessed.

The woman stood on the far side of a curved meals servery which divided the compartment into a meals area/galley and lounge. She looked up at the sound of their entrance and ceased slicing the vegetables in front of her. Her smile came quick and easily to her sharp-featured face. Wiping her hands on a small towel, she stepped out from behind the counter and met them as they passed by the semi-circular arrangement of acceleration couch-cum-sofa.

"I am pleased to see you are looking better," the elder woman said. Her Basic was perfect, her vowels rounded and consonants sharply pronounced. "Tiel's skills as a healer are improving considerably."

Searching the woman's face for traces of deceit or malice, Han's mouth twitched and he nodded slowly. "Yeah, she's done a good job."

The woman's lips quirked up into a private smile as she briefly considered the young Corellian, then she touched the base of her throat and temple in greeting to him, before modifying her custom and extending her hand towards Han.

"I am Keral, daughter of Rinni and Seltin."

Although they knew his name, he returned the introductory greeting. "Han Solo."

Her hand was warm and firm in his, and he used the brief pause to assimilate the information he had received. Tiel was the daughter of two females. Han knew this was the normal way of reproduction for some species, including certain races of humans, either through artificial insemination, genetic manipulation or as a natural occurrence. No wonder Tiel had taken him on as her own personal project with such relish; he was probably the first male human with which she'd had close contact.

"Welcome to our home, Han Solo," Keral intoned, gesturing with her hand to indicate the freighter. Then she nodded towards the meals area. "We would be honoured if you sat at our table and ate with us."

' _Honoured', huh?_ Han thought dubiously, however he smiled politely and said, "Thanks."

Keral returned to the galley and Han followed Tiel's lead and sat on one of the stools lining the waist high servery. He watched as Keral arranged an assortment of vegetables and thinly sliced meat on a platter. The galley was laid out simply with a micro-oven, washer, and stowage booths and niches for cooking and serving implements. Keral seemed at ease within the confines of the galley, and Han considered it strange the member of this clan who was the pilot was also assigned the duties of cook.

Tiel reached across the counter for a ceramic pitcher and poured herself and Han a mug of crimson-coloured juice. He took the mug from her and waited for her to drink before tentatively sampling the juice in hesitant sips. Tiel's eyes reflected the amusement she saw in his actions, however she concentrated on Keral's preparations.

" _Kon naki ab Tsaara?_ " Tiel asked the elder woman.

At Tiel's use of an unknown language, Han's eyes skimmed between the woman and the girl. He had no idea what Tiel had asked. A sickening thought occurred to him that if they did not continue speak Basic or some other language he understood, he was at a considerable disadvantage.

Without looking up, Keral continued slicing the vegetables. "Tiel, I believe it is rather impolite for you to use Kwalii in the presence of our guest." She used the knife to transfer the slices to the platter. "How will he know what we are saying?" Keral smiled at Han then turned her attention to her daughter.

Tiel's complexion reddened, but her eyes flashed defiantly. "He _may_ understand Kwalii," the girl suggested.

Keral smiled indulgently. "He may, he may not. It is not a common language. What are the chances that your guess is correct?"

Tiel's lips became a sullen line, but she did not answer.

Keral look back to Han. "Han Solo, do you speak Kwalii?"

Han shook his head. "No," he told her warily, intrigued by the exchange between parent and child. "I'm not even too sure where it is you folks come from."

"Tiel will explain," Keral said as she opened a compartment in search of plates. "And in Basic this time, Tiel."

Tiel glared at Keral from beneath truculent eyebrows, then turned to Han. She squared her shoulders and held her head proudly.

"We are Kwalishan, from the Kwalii system," Tiel told him evenly, as if reciting a well-practiced speech, "which is located on Outer Rim. Our kin are Tuomashian clan."

From the corner of his eye, Han watched Keral set plates in front of them as he listened to Tiel. He kept his senses attuned to anything which may suggest someone was entering the rec area or the freighter. He flexed the fingers of his right hand and held them near the front of his jacket. He had the impression Keral was aware of his distraction, though she continued with preparations for the meal.

Tiel continued, "We travel wide and far, trading with those we meet. We trade in goods of many kind, offer friendship and help to those in need. Sometimes we stay one place for long time. Sometimes we pass through. We have not seen the skies of Kwalii for many years, but we are not sad for we are explorers of the galaxy."

"Explorers?" Han interrupted skeptically. The galaxy may have been a big place, but no one went around 'exploring' it any more. Explorers were from the times of fusion-powered interstellar space flight, and that was millennia ago. He wondered if the girl had the right word.

"We are explorers," Keral added, coming to the aid of her daughter. She studied Han as if he was a child in need of correction. "For we explore the places and peoples who are foreign to us, and become wiser in the process."

Han's face hardened at the vaguely patronising tone. "And what were you _'exploring'_ when you came across me? Out looking at the finer night spots of Coronet, maybe?"

Keral tilted her head at the sharp edge to his voice and smiled sympathetically. "Please. It is time to eat," she explained. "Tsaara had asked for us to wait until they return before explaining what has occurred. They will answer your questions. She is the one who fully understands him."

 _They? She? Him?_ Han had no idea who or what Keral was talking about. The confusing use of pronouns heightened his tension, and he sat perched on the stool wondering why someone couldn't reply to his damn questions with a straight answer. Exasperated, he scrunched a hand through his hair and stared at the platter of vegetables and meat. He had been hungry, but now the thought of food made him nauseous.

Keral touched his hand which lay resting on the counter and he raised his hazel eyes to meet her consoling gaze.

"I understand this must be difficult for you after all you have endured," Keral softly told him, "but there is much that needs explaining. You need to know all the factors, and the implications involved, before you make an informed decision. That is why we must wait until they return. I do not wish to disconcert and mislead you with second-hand information when he is the one who should tell you. For it is his privilege and his honour."

Han's mind was racing, struggling to piece this thing together. He didn't like the words Keral had used: factors, implications, mislead. With a snap he sat upright and pulled his hand from hers, his mouth working silently as his brain battled to keep up.

"Who are you talking about?" Han finally asked. "Who is ' _he_ '?"

Keral's eyes widened with misperception and then understanding. Her gaze dropped to the side of his jacket where his blaster rested and he cautiously followed her eye movements.

"You wear the weapon you gave him," she told him, her voice dark with displeasure. "I had assumed you understood that we had come by you through Chewbacca."

 _That chu'ellan Wookiee!_

Although it was the first time he had heard the name pronounced correctly, Han's internal alarms clamoured and his body tensed with apprehension as he slotted things into place. The Wookiee had saved him from the hoods. When he thought about it, it was obvious. He could recall hearing savage snarls and howling, seeing flashes of russet-coloured hair and dangerous teeth. And when the cries and screams had died away, Han had had the impression of being scooped up into hairy arms as effortlessly as if he were a child, blue eyes anxiously searching his face for a response. He had thought it was all a dream.

Han became aware of the questioning looks passing between Keral and Tiel as they watched his reaction. The girl seemed uncertain and perhaps a little afraid, while Keral displayed almost parental concern for him. From their response to his reaction, he figured he must have looked bewildered and angry. Kest knows that was how he felt.

Han was still unravelling this information, analysing _how_ he should feel about what had happened and trying to decide on an appropriate course of action, so he did not notice Keral's head tilt to acknowledge the presence of newcomers.

With a curt nod, Keral greeted them. "Welcome,"

Her words ignited Han into action. He spun out of his seat, drawing his blaster and whipping it around to level on the woman and the Wookiee who stood at the threshold to the rec area. The woman instinctively opened her palms in a gesture which at first seemed submissive, then became a soothing hand movement.

"Easy, easy," she softly cooed. "No one will harm you."

Han backed away from the counter and into the centre of the compartment so he could more easily view all players in this game. He tried not to meet Chewbacca's steadfast gaze, however the Wookiee crossed his arms across his chest and looked impatiently at Han.

Han was surprised to see how much weight the Wookiee had gained in the last month. Muscles bulged dangerously beneath the Wookiee's coat which now shone with vitality. The Wookiee also he didn't smell as bad as he had. He looked as formidable and imposing as Han remembered, but with an added sense of strength and freedom welling from within. What _was_ different was the crossbow-style bowcaster hanging from his shoulder, and the bandoleer of quarrel charges slung across his expansive chest.

"Drop the bowcaster, Wookiee," Han demanded tightly.

Chewbacca's chin raised defiantly and he mumbled something at the Corellian.

"Drop it _now_." Han stretched his blaster arm towards the Wookiee.

Han heard Tiel inhale sharply and he cast a quick glance at her and Keral, but they had not moved. The woman at the Wookiee's side—Tsaara, Han supposed—touched a shaggy arm and indicated with a nod that Chewbacca should comply with Han's order. Chewbacca looked at his shorter companion, nodded at some form of unspoken communication between them, and slowly lowered his weapon to the deck. Han frowned at how easily the woman had convinced the Wookiee to acquiesce. There was obviously something very different about the relationship the Wookiee had with these people.

"Now nice and slow, I want both of you to take a seat on the couch." Han indicated the acceleration lounge with the barrel of the pistol. "Move."

With the Wookiee and Tsaara seated, Han pointed his weapon at Keral and Tiel. "Now you two."

Keral obeyed, however Tiel remained on the stool, her head slowly shaking in disbelief.

"No, Han," the girl implored. "We have not harmed you. We are your friends."

"Tiel, come," Keral instructed sharply from her position on the couch next to Tsaara. "Do as he asks."

The girl did not move. She was staring at Han, her hand held open towards him.

"Come on, Tiel," Han told her. "Be a good girl and take a seat with the rest of them."

Tiel's eyes and nostrils flared at his condescending comment. She dropped her hand, but refused to move.

Han was in no mood for teenage disobedience. He had covered the short distance towards her before she realised what was happening. He grabbed her roughly by the arm, yanked her to her feet, then pushed her back into an empty place on the lounge. Tiel cried out in surprise as she landed heavily next to Keral, scowling at Han as she rubbed her arm where he had gripped her.

Han curtly dismissed the looks of dismay and disgust on the faces of Keral and Tsaara by telling himself he had not asked these people for their help, so he owed them nothing. The Wookiee watched him impassively, yet his eyes were wary and coiled.

Blaster still trained on them, Han resumed his seat on the stool, leaning back against the counter as he faced the semi-circular lounge. From this position he could watch the three females, the Wookiee, and keep an eye on the freighter's external hatch. Knocking his boot heel casually against the side of the servery, Han swung the blaster barrel to encompass the crowd seated before him and allowed himself a self-satisfied smile.

"Are we all comfortable?" he asked sarcastically. "Now someone's going to tell me what's going on."

They answered him with a disapproving silence.

"Dammit!" Han cursed darkly. "I want some answers and I want 'em now."

Their refusal to respond pushed Solo to the limits of his temper. He sat up straight and, with a snarl of frustration, wiped his free hand across the counter, scattering the plates, mugs and cutlery to the floor. He whirled back towards his captives as the Wookiee growled loudly at him. Han reined in his anger and pointed his blaster at Tsaara.

"You. You speak Wookiee," he demanded. "What did he say?"

Tsaara calmly stared at Han. "'Enough'," she translated. "He said, 'Enough'."

Han grimaced and his hold on his blaster loosened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Chewbacca shifted on the lounge and Han swung the blaster back to him. The Wookiee regarded him with disappointment, then spoke again in his growling, guttural language. Tsaara translated without further prompting, speaking the words as though she was the Wookiee.

["Have you not trampled on the generosity of these people enough? They have cared for you and tended to your needs. And yet you draw a weapon on them in their own home, abuse and frighten them. Now you destroy their possessions in a mindless act of violence. You have much to learn, little Honor Brother."]

Han blinked and sat back against the counter again, digesting what the Wookiee had said. A shadow of remorse shifted through the young man.

"You, Wookiee." He refrained from using Chewbacca's name so as not to get too familiar with him. "I believe you helped me out the other night."

The Wookiee's lips curled back in a smile and a rumbling chuckle sounded deep in his throat.

["Helped you out? I saved your narrow Corellian ass!"]

Keral and Tiel grinned as Chewbacca's laugh echoed off the bulkheads.

"Okay," Han conceded. "You saved me. I s'pose I should thank you for that."

Chewbacca interrupted Han's mutated gratitude by giving a short, dismissive bark, thick with sarcasm. The intent needed no translation and Han deliberately ignored it.

"What the hell are you doing following me around in the first place?" Solo demanded, channeling his discomfort into anger. "We parted company back on Triandra and as far as I'm concerned _that's_ it!" He rubbed at his temple, remembering the blow from his blaster the Wookiee had delivered. Then the thought occurred to him of how risky it was for a free Wookiee to be roaming the galaxy, and he gave Chewbacca his most sardonic smile. "I'd've thought it'd be pretty dangerous for a Wookiee to be wandering around by himself."

Again the deep Wookiee chuckle. ["Pretty dangerous for a disgraced Imperial pilot, wouldn't you say?"]

Han squirmed in his seat. The Wookiee was a wise ass. Accurate, but a wise ass all the same.

Chewbacca cut his laughter short, and waited for silence to return before solemnly bending his head in reverence. ["I am here to protect you, Honour Brother."]

The Wookiee raised his head and returned the Corellian's gaze. Han's pulse throbbed at the base of his throat. He was almost afraid to ask for clarification. He didn't like the sound of this at all.

"What do you mean?" Han's voice was more subdued than it had been, but still tight and angry. His fingers tapped on the trigger guard of the DL-44.

A look of kindness shaped the Wookiee's features. ["Humans do not understand,"] Chewbacca explained slowly, ["but for our kind, the saving of a Life in debts the Saved to the Saviour. For Life."]

Han caught the Wookiee word for 'life' almost as soon as Chewbacca had spoken it, for Tsaara's translation of the Wookiee's speech was almost immediate. The syllables, pitch and tone of Chewbacca's yelping utterance settled over Han. The word echoed throughout him, in Wookiee, Corellian and Basic: _Life._

["When you released me,"] Chewbacca continued, ["from that Imperial windbag, _you_ saved my Life. You may not have realised this, but you did. I would not have lasted more than the next few seasons under the major's control."] Pausing, the Wookiee blinked. ["You saved my Life, Han Solo. So I am indebted to you for Life."]

Han swallowed, raising his chin in interest despite himself. Tiel and Keral had also turned to listen to the Wookiee's explanation.

["For my people, the value of a Life is without measure. It is easier to cast a net and catch the wind than it is to quantify the value of a Life. From its creation, a Life flows on its journey through time like a leaf on a stream. Bobbing and dancing, it shifts in the currents, impacting on other Lives it touches, shaping and creating new ones. And when the Warrior finally meets the Hunter Death, the Life continues to live and grow in the memories and the action of the other Lives it has encountered along its way."] Chewbacca threw Han a wry smile. ["It is said that even the Life that does not wish companionship on its journey may shape the very stars themselves."] The smile faded as Chewbacca slowly blinked again. ["The pledge to those who save a Life is a bond which cannot be broken. It is an honour and right to repay that which is without measure. This is my most sacred obligation. This is my Life Debt to you."]

Han sat there quietly, listening to Tsaara's translation. He heard solemnity in Chewbacca's voice and he could now easily discern the Wookiee words of Life and Debt.

The familiarity and humour that the Wookiee spoke to him was natural and unforced. Han's initial distrust and vigilance were gradually subsumed by an unfamiliar calm as he found comfort in being able to distinguish Wookiee words from non-verbal grunts. It briefly occurred to him that, given time and practice, he would be able to understand the Wookiee with the proficiency of the Kwalishan woman.

However, at the core of who he was, Han's early warning sensors were registering off the scale. The Wookiee's gratitude sounded a whole more serious than just some guy wanting to drop by and say 'thanks'. So when Chewbacca suddenly rose to his feet, Han's reflexes kicked in again and he stood his ground on the deck, his grip tightening on the blaster. He focused on the surprisingly graceful creature who moved towards him, oblivious to the concerned, pensive faces of the Kwalishan family.

"Take it nice and easy, Wook," Solo warned as Chewbacca approached, the blaster muzzle tracking his movements. "You need to re-think what your next move's gonna be."

But the Wookiee continued forward. ["I must do this right, as is the custom amongst my people."]

Solo thumbed off the blaster's safety. "Back off! Now!"

Han didn't want to shoot the Wookiee, not after all the trouble that had been caused by freeing the slave. Han also didn't know what Chewbacca intended to do, and as he'd just been poking a pistol in the faces of a bunch of strangers who had rescued and cared for him, Han was also uncertain how the women would react. "I won't warn you again."

On the acceleration couch, Tsaara's raised a single finger that appeared to restrain the other members of her family from rising to Chewbacca's aid. Keral held Tiel's arm for additional control and comfort.

The Wookiee was now less than two metres from the agitated pilot, his easy display of strength and composure in stark contrast to the young Corellian. At such close range, Solo understood the potential danger this immense humanoid posed, and his finger flexed against the blaster's trigger. But the Wookiee suddenly stopped and fixed his gaze deep into Han's eyes. The disarming Wookiee smile was enough to prevent Han from completing the firing action.

Solo watched warily as Chewbacca placed one long hairy arm across the front of his own chest, fingers and claws curling into a fist, a gesture suggesting the hand now held the Wookiee's heart. Chewbacca extended his fist towards Han, opening his hand in front of the black mouth of the blaster.

["Han Solo."]

Han flinched as he heard his Wookiee name.

["You have saved my Life. For this selfless act, I pledge a Life Debt to you. To honour my Debt, I will stay by your side, offering protection as you journey through Life. Let no being attempt to break this bond I pledge to you, for it is as strong as the blood tie between two brothers."]

Han's head jerked back at the magnitude of the pledge, his blaster not straying from the Wookiee. Chewbacca dropped his arm and regarded Han impatiently. He indicated the blaster with a tilt of his head.

["It is time to stop hiding behind your pride and your fear, little Honour Brother."]

"I ain't anyone's brother," Han snarled, "let alone yours."

["You cannot absolve that which has happened. As you cannot break that which is unbreakable."]

The Wookiee was far too much of the philosopher for Han's liking.

"Well, I'd say we're even, wouldn't you?" Han abruptly countered. "You saved me from those hoods." The corner of his mouth lifted smugly. "A life for a life sounds like a fair exchange to me."

Chewbacca snorted dismissively. ["Forgive me if I am mistaken, but I do not believe Corellians have a system of Life Debts."]

"No, but—"

["And even if you did, wouldn't that in turn indebt _you_ to _me_ , for Life?"]

"You dishonour Chewbacca by not accepting his pledge," Tsaara quickly added.

Her comment diverted Han's attention from the Wookiee and he fixed her with a lethal glare. The distraction was all Chewbacca needed to dive towards the Corellian, gripping and forcing the blaster hand towards the ceiling as he tackled the young man in a mass of russet hair and muscle.

Han dropped like a stalled Skyhopper, groaning at the sudden jar to his ribs and spitting out a mouthful of coarse Wookiee hair in disgust. He thrashed against the knees and hands pinning his arms away from his body and against the hard deckplates as Chewbacca sat perched on his chest. Han's hand still clutched his blaster, finger latched firmly on the trigger, although the Wookiee had forced the muzzle to point askew. But Han didn't fire. Despite the adrenalin, anger and fear that compelled the young man to kick and struggle, a shred of reason made him appreciate that he would be dead by now if the Wookiee had meant him harm.

["Han."] Chewbacca was softly growling his name. ["Han."]

His upper lip curled into a sneer, Han raised his eyes to meet Chewbacca's compassionate gaze. The Wookiee smiled at Han's recognition of his name, for Tsaara had not offered a translation.

["You are amongst kith and kin. You will not be harmed. And I will never allow another being you harm you, for you are my brother."]

He released his grasp of Han's wrists and slid his knees from his arms, warily watching Han's gun hand. The Corellian had only partially understood what the Wookiee had said, but Chewbacca's actions had spoken more loudly than words.

Han relaxed his grip on the blaster, his fingers uncoiling from the trigger and he let the weapon rest against the deck. With a relieved sigh, Chewbacca affectionately ruffled Han's hair. Han only scowled.

["And even brothers require correction from time to time,"] Chewbacca chided. ["Especially little ones."]

Han's breathing and heart rate slowed. The Wookiee meant him no harm. He had pledged a Life Debt to him. He just didn't appreciate a blaster in the face.

Han still wasn't comfortable with the responsibility and obligation that Chewie was trying to force upon him. He figured he'd talk the Wookiee out of this crazy Life Debt thing later. Or else ditch the Wook when he least expected.

"Get off me," Han told the Wookiee evenly, wondering whether Chewbacca would comply with the direction.

Chewbacca's lips pursed in consideration. He nodded and stood up, drawing Han to his feet with a hand latched onto his shoulder and the front of his jacket. Han brusquely pushed away Chewbacca's hand. With a final, wary glare at the Wookiee, Han jammed the blaster into the waistband of his trousers. He turned towards the relieved Kwalishan women. Tiel frowned at Han fiercely, then ran to hug Chewbacca.

"If someone had just told me straight out from the start what was going on, we could've avoided this," he told them gruffly.

["If you had been listening,"] Chewbacca scolded, ["this could have been avoided."]

"What did he say?" Han asked Tsaara.

Tsaara chuckled as Keral placed a loving arm around shoulders. "He said that you had better learn Wookiee quickly if you are going to understand him."

Han grimaced. "Yeah. We'll see."

The meal had been restorative as well as tasty and aide his recovery to the point where Han now felt the best he had in a long time. The herbs and vegetables of Kwalishan cuisine were cleansing, healing and rejuvenating and, Han decided as he lay stretched out on the bunk, they had certainly succeeded.

Han had spent the meal circumspectly watching the Kwalishan family and their Wookiee friend from beneath gathered brows. The humans chatted comfortably with the Wookiee, Tsaara translating effortlessly for the benefit of Tiel and Keral but more, Han guessed, to assist him. Han was also surprised that despite his initial lack of gratitude and the way he had bailed them up at gun point, the women bore him no ill-feeling. They did not speak of the incident again and instead involved him in the conversation, explaining how they had arrived on Corellia.

Following Chewbacca's escape from Triandra, and after trading the conspicuous Imperial shuttle for passage on a freighter, the Wookiee had returned home to Kashyyyk to be reunited with his mate, Mallatobuck. Fortunately Keral and Tsaara had been on the Wookiee homeworld at the time as part of their regular visits to Malla while her mate remained enslaved. But as wonderful as it had been to reunite with his mate, Chewbacca had an obligation to meet. He knew the lieutenant who had released him would be punished, and he owed the young man a Life Debt. With the willing assistance of his Kwalishan friends, and credits thrown the way of slicers who were able to tap into Imperial networks, Chewbacca had traced Han back to Corellia. It had not been difficult to determine that the court marital would take place at the naval facility outside of Coronet. Then it had been a simple matter of waiting for the right opportunity. Han had acknowledged he was lucky that Chewbacca had followed him to and from the tavern. Lucky for both of them, Chewbacca had added, for the Wookiee had been able to honour his Life Debt.

The bunk gently rocked as the hyperdrive engines roared the freighter through hyperspace. It was comforting to be in space again. Even if Han wasn't piloting the ship, the knowledge that he was flying was enough to make the tense muscles in his shoulders relax and let him sink deeper into the mattress.

Tsaara and Keral had offered Han safe passage off Corellia. Han had not hesitated in accepting their suggestion. There was nothing on Corellia that compelled him to stay.

Han had also agreed to accompany Chewbacca back to Kashyyyk, even if it wasn't the first choice of planets he wanted to visit. He hoped that after a few weeks with his mate, Chewbacca would be reluctant to leave Kashyyyk again, and Han would be free to do as he pleased, minus one Wookiee sidekick. While the concept of a Life Debt sounded virtuous and honourable, when it got down to the harsh reality of the situation, Han couldn't see the Wookiee devoting his life to protecting a young human when the comforts of home and his mate where calling.

So that was Han's plan. Or as much of a plan as wanted to make at present. He had to remain flexible and be ready to change step as quickly as a cadet on the Academy parade ground. He needed to keep his eyes peeled for opportunities and be prepared to run with them.

Han rolled onto his side and closed his eyes to the darkness. His fingers felt for the blaster he had jammed under the pillow, before dragging the blanket further over his shoulder and drifting off to sleep. His sleep was sound and deep, free from dreams, free from questions.

Free.


End file.
